


Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood

by agentmoppet, decanthrope



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Communication, Exploration, Friends With Benefits, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Sex Is Fun, Virginity, realistic sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 08:16:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12104535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentmoppet/pseuds/agentmoppet, https://archiveofourown.org/users/decanthrope/pseuds/decanthrope
Summary: Harry's used to finding distractions to avoid studying, but propositioning Malfoy to get rid of the pesky problem of their virginity is on a whole new level, even for him.





	Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood

**Author's Note:**

> For a while, we'd been talking about wishing there were more fics out there that explored bad sex. Not bad sex as in sex that sucks, but sex that's fumbling, awkward, endearing, honest, and real. So... eventually we wrote it. We tried to make something that focused on consent, communication, and--above all--reasonable, sane participants who had feelings beyond "I need you, _right now"_ while still being super into each other. Hopefully we got it right!

Because the weather of the British Isles had changed with all the suddenness of a menopausal hot flash, the air surrounding the Black Lake had turned muggy and oppressive.

It was, Hagrid had enthused, entirely the wrong sort of environment for his baby bubotubers, who, he said, required a cool, if slightly damp, habitat for optimal growth. The kind of environment, he pleaded, that perfectly fit the guest chambers dotting the hallway up and down the dungeons that would have otherwise housed them all.

The guest chambers were also the kind of environment that McGonagall had begrudgingly, after much whinging and many tears, agreed to allow his bubotubers to have. Consequently, Harry had been displaced from the nice, cushy single room he’d been assigned and re-placed in a cramped six-bed dorm room with Malfoy standing on the other side of the door.

“What the bloody fuck?” he said when he’d gathered his jaw off the floor. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Malfoy sneered at him, pale face drawing tight and turning, if it was possible, even whiter than Harry remembered it being.

“They couldn’t just put me in a tent by the lake, could they, Potter?” Malfoy spat, shouldering his way past Harry. He was just as pointy as Harry remembered him; he rubbed at his chest where Malfoy’d struck him and turned to follow him into his— _their,_ apparently—room.

Privately, Harry reckoned they could have very well put him in a tent by the lake. They could have put him in a tent in Siberia and he’d have been happy. Happier than having to room with the prat, that was for sure.

When he’d agreed to sign up for the summer program, he’d been secretly overjoyed at the chance to come back to Hogwarts for three months. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy studying in the pre-specialist program at the Ministry, but even after three years away, he couldn’t pass up the chance to come home. Besides, Hermione had told him there would be a range of past students studying a number of different things for the program, along with students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. It had sounded fun—a light-hearted escape from his newly adult world.

For the first time, he was beginning to rethink his decision.

“Who else is joining us?” Malfoy asked, dropping his bag on one of the beds and turning to face Harry with an expression of utter boredom.

“What?” Harry’s face crinkled in confusion. “What do you mean? I didn’t know _you_ were joining me. Don’t we get our own rooms?”

Malfoy scoffed. “Haven’t you heard? We’ve been displaced by agriculture.”

The warm bed by the window called invitingly to Harry. He’d been planning on having a nap. It was going to be wonderful. Now he had to drag himself all the way back down to the Great Hall to find McGonagall and ask about the room assignments.

As it turned out, he had to do no such thing. The door burst open, and Ron stumbled in.

“Harry, they’ve put you with—” he broke off mid-sentence, his freckled face whitening. “Oh. Well. This is—Yes.”

Malfoy leaned against the bedpost and folded his arms across his chest. “Weasley. Kind of you to drop in. Where’s your trunk?”

“Yeah, Ron,” Harry looked behind him into the corridor. “Didn’t the elves bring your stuff up?”

Ron blinked several times before he seemed to realise he’d been asked a question. “What? Oh, no.” He huffed a laugh, turning to address Harry. “I’m staying with Neville. They’re not going to put four adults together, mate. That’s just weird.” He shuddered.

Malfoy raised one eyebrow, and Harry felt momentarily inclined to agree.

“And yet,” Malfoy said pointedly.

“Well,” Ron had the grace to look abashed. “Yeah, I don’t know what she was thinking when she pulled this, but surely you can talk her out of it?”

“Merlin, have you seen the luggage Lavender’s brought with her?” Neville’s voice sounded from the corridor, just before he rounded the corner and came to an alarmed halt in the doorway. “Oh. What’s going on?”

“What do you think is going on?” he asked. “McGonagall’s put me in here with Malfoy. We’re just about to go and make a switch.”

“Ah,” Neville tugged at his lip. “I don’t know that you’re going to be able to do that, actually.”

“Why not?” Malfoy’s calm demeanour snapped, and for a second Harry saw through to the mild hystrionics that were slowly bubbling beneath.

“There’s no room. McGonagall only commissioned a few dorms to be available for us; the rest are being cleaned and having their spellwork refreshed. It’s why we can’t use the common rooms at all.”

“Right,” Harry said, feeling very much like a man on the edge of a precipice.

“Right,” Malfoy echoed faintly.

“You’ve got to admit,” Ron said, his eyes wide. “It’s pretty funny.”

Then, Neville snorted and Ron lost his careful composure, falling back against the door and howling with laughter.

Harry cast a glance at Malfoy, expecting to find him sneering or on the verge of a nasty remark. Instead, he was just as pale as when he’d first opened the door to see Harry, and from the look on his face, he didn’t find it very funny at all.

In fact, he looked resigned to his fate. “Yeah,” he said blankly. “Funny.”

Ron didn’t seem to notice.

“Well, it is. Only, I mean, you _hated_ each other. I don’t know what she was thinking—sticking you two together. I reckon one of you’ll be in the infirmary by the end of week.”

The way he eyed Malfoy gave Harry no illusions about who he suspected might end up in hospital by then.

“Sorry, Harry,” Neville cut in before Ron had the chance to say anything else.

“That’s okay, Neville,” he said. Then, as an afterthought, “thanks.”

“How do you know she won’t switch us?” Malfoy asked suddenly.

Neville shifted his feet. He didn’t look at Malfoy when he responded, “I overheard Mindy asking to swap rooms. She’s been put in with Anthony Goldstein. They had a thing a while ago. Nasty breakup. It was all over the department for months. McGonagall wouldn’t switch them, so I doubt she’ll let you.”

Malfoy twitched. “Joy,” he said, sounding anything but.

He turned and, pointedly ignoring them, began unpacking his trunk and setting up his side of the room.

Harry, shockingly, agreed with Malfoy’s opinion—something that only a few years ago he never would have thought possible. He hadn’t spared a thought for Malfoy since leaving Hogwarts. He hadn’t kept track, but maybe four years had passed since then. It was weird seeing him again after so long; weirder still to have to live with him for the next three months.

Shaking himself out of the strangeness of it all, he turned to Neville and smiled somewhat desperately.

“What’s up with Lavender’s trunks?”

Neville blinked owlishly.

“Oh. Well, only that there are about a million of them—”

“—and they’re _pink!_ Like Umbridge, but somehow worse. I’ve never been able to look at cats the same after her,” Ron paused, face wrinkling as he swallowed. “And I live with Crookshanks.”

From the other side of the room, Harry thought he might have heard Malfoy sniff. Looking over at him, he thought perhaps he saw his shoulders shake, or maybe twitch. Harry found himself in the odd position of sympathising with Malfoy. Umbridge was an entirely other level of PTSD that left a lasting impression.

Neville laughed.

“Yeah, but you’ve never liked Crookshanks, even before Umbridge,” he said, and like that, some of the tension that’d been present since Ron had shown up was broken.

“Don’t let Hermione hear you,” Ron hissed, comically stretching his neck around the door to peer down the hallway, like he expected Hermione to be lurking outside.

Harry rolled his eyes and was about to respond when Malfoy, surprisingly, beat him to it.

“You act like it was a big secret and she didn’t know.”

Even more surprisingly, he didn’t sound incredibly mean as he said it.

Harry gaped at Malfoy in disbelief while Ron made gurgling noises beside him and quickly flushed an unattractive red.

“We—that was—I mean—” he spluttered as Harry picked his jaw up off the ground for the second time that afternoon and Neville half-laughed and nervous-gasped at the same time, nearly choking on his tongue.

Malfoy turned more fully toward them.

“Please,” he drawled infuriatingly, “The whole school knew how much you hated the Kneazle. _Especially_ after third year.”

Ron had mostly recovered by now.

“Yeah, well… yeah,” he said lamely, giving Malfoy the hairy eyeball, like he couldn’t believe Malfoy was capable of saying something that mostly lacked vitriol.

Personally, Harry couldn’t believe Malfoy was talking about Hermione in a non-depreciatory way. The same Hermione he’d had no trouble calling _“mudblood”_ in front of all their peers. It left Harry feeling weirdly uncomfortable and wrongfooted to hear the complete lack of malice in Malfoy’s voice.

Neville and Ron retreated not too long after to get settled into their own dorm. They were staying on the other end of the castle in the Ravenclaw dorms, and Neville was anxious to get back in case it took them hours to solve whatever riddle they needed to get in, and Ron, Harry suspected, wanted a quick escape.

Harry hadn’t brought much with him; his trunk was mostly filled with clothing and whatever books and parchment Hermione had nagged him about until he’d stuffed them in, along with an assortment of knick knacks he set up on his bedside table, including the photo album of his parents Hagrid had given him at the end of first year.

He watched the front photo loop back on itself for a moment until someone cleared their throat behind him.

Harry whirled around, heart drumming wildly in his chest, and spotted Malfoy by the door. By the time his heartbeat had returned to normal, whatever traces of awkwardness he’d seen on Malfoy’s face had disappeared, and he cleared his throat again, avoiding Harry’s eyes.

“It’s dinnertime,” he said plainly, looking over Harry’s left shoulder. As he gawped in confusion, the muscles in Malfoy’s cheek jumped.

“Yeah…?” Harry asked bemusedly. “And?”

Malfoy met his gaze, and what looked like irritation flashed through his eyes before he visibly, and audibly, inhaled. The muscles in his cheek rippled again, and when he next spoke, he sounded considerably less calm.

“ _And,_ ” he stressed, “Are you coming or not?”

Harry opened his mouth to snap something out—he didn’t know what—but the tone of Malfoy’s voice made him pause. Malfoy had always been highly strung, there was no doubt about it, but not like this. Right now, he seemed highly strung because he was nervous, because he was _trying_.

Taking a deep breath, Harry swallowed the retort he had been ready to give and stood up.

“Sure.”

Malfoy blinked, noticeably confused, and then turned away without another word. They made it down to the Great Hall in companionable silence, and Harry distantly wondered if the staircase was about to disappear in a great puff of smoke and reveal that the entire thing was a dream.

The staircase remained intact, and to Harry’s vague sense of burgeoning horror and confusion, Malfoy joined him at the table for dinner. He ignored the looks Ron and Hermione were giving him as they tried to catch his attention, and instead spent his time watching Malfoy out of the corner of his eye, trying to determine what he was up to. He made it all the way to dessert before being forced to conclude that Malfoy had no ulterior motive; he was simply sitting down to dinner. With Harry. Eventually he gave up his paranoia and tucked into his treacle tart with enthusiasm.

By the time McGonagall stood up to give them a few last minute reminders before bed, Harry was feeling full and ready for bed.

The Great Hall came to a grudging silence, full of quiet murmurings and laughter as everyone waited to be allowed to leave.

Harry was surprised so many of them had returned—it was almost like eighth year all over again. Except, eighth year had passed in something like a haze: too many people had still been in mourning clothes, their eyes red-rimmed each day at breakfast. Harry wasn’t sure how he passed his exams; he couldn’t remember much about the year at all. He thought Malfoy had tried to speak to him once or twice, but Harry had told him to piss off, and Malfoy had gone, just like that.

Looking at the careful way Malfoy held himself now, he found himself more curious than ever about what was going on inside his head. Had it started back then? It was nearly three years ago now. Had Malfoy been different all this time?

“I must say,” McGonagall said, looking around at them all with a faint smile. “My first instinct is to address you all as students, but while you are indeed apprentices in your many fields, it is more than clear that I can no longer call you that. Hogwarts is proud to welcome you home, and I wish you luck in your endeavours over the summer. Those of you seeking unicorn hair in the forest, please be advised the herd has moved to the western fields, while the thestrals have migrated behind the lake. Professor Hagrid will provide you with an overview tomorrow.” Her smile suddenly turned wry. “Those of you who have sought special permission to study explosive spells under the tutelage of the esteemed Professor Staltwort,” Seamus and Ron grinned. “Do take note that any permanent damage to Hogwarts grounds will result in an enquiry from the Ministry. Now, to bed.” She clapped her hands, and the lamps lowered, their flames flickering gently in their sconces.

Harry followed Ron and Neville up to their rooms, where they met Seamus and Hermione.

“It’s a bit cold in here, isn’t it?” Hermione shivered, looking around the bare room. “I think I might just head to bed.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, crossing his arms and shifting from foot to foot. “Sorry guys. A warming charm just isn’t the same as a fire.”

He grinned; if he had to share with Malfoy, at least their room seemed to be next to some kind of furnace. The heat bled straight through the walls.

He waved goodnight, wondering why he felt a sudden and unfamiliar apprehension at facing Malfoy. It wasn’t like the irritation he was used to—if anything, he would say that he often _wanted_ to see Malfoy, if only so he could have a chance at hexing the git. But he remembered how Malfoy had waited for him when they’d left the Hall, how he’d hovered, almost nervously, while Harry chatted with everyone. He remembered the look on Malfoy’s face when Harry had followed the rest of them into their rooms, and how he’d melted into the darkness before Harry could think of how to phrase the question of whether Malfoy wanted to come in with them, let alone figure out if Harry wanted him to.

He paused in front of their room, struck by the undeniable realisation that he was feeling _guilty_. Then, in a deft maneuver with which he was well-practiced, he pushed the thought aside and opened the door.

The room was already dark. Harry undressed as quickly as he could, uncomfortably aware that Malfoy hadn’t closed his curtains, and hopped into bed. Minutes passed. The silence felt uncomfortably thick, in that way it did when two people were pretending to be asleep, but not trying particularly hard.

“Hey, Malfoy,” Harry said, his voice too loud in the quiet.

There was no response.

“Malfoy,” Harry hissed.

A sound like a sigh came from the other bed, and then he heard Malfoy rolling over—presumably to face him.

“What?” his voice was quiet and faintly drawling in a way that made Harry imagine Malfoy was sneering.

“I didn’t—” he began, and then tried to think how to phrase ‘I didn’t mean to leave you out’ without sounding like a twat.

The silence stretched on.

“You didn’t what?” Malfoy prompted, a strange tone to his voice.

“I didn’t mean to, you know.” He trailed off.

“You didn’t mean to _what_?” Malfoy asked after it was clear Harry wasn’t continuing. “Inhale three treacle tarts at dinner? Spill half of your mashed potato on my shoe? Act like a—” he cut himself off abruptly.

Harry was struck by the notion that he’d never before heard Malfoy express anything bordering on restraint.

“Sorry, Potter,” he continued sharply. “I’m working on it, but Merlin knows you make it difficult.”

Harry had no idea what he was talking about, but the sheer exasperation in Malfoy’s tone—along with the faint but undeniable lack of vitriol—somehow made him smile, despite his best efforts.

“Er. That’s alright?”

Malfoy huffed a laugh, sounding surprised. “Good. Now, what didn’t you mean?”

“I didn’t mean to act like you weren’t wanted.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath, but beyond that, there was no response. Harry wasn’t sure where the thought had come from; Malfoy _wasn’t_ wanted. Why the hell would he be wanted? But Harry had heard the whispers and seen the articles in the Prophet. He knew that whatever else Malfoy was doing, whatever else he was, he was trying. Not just with money, like Lucius would have. Every week he was doing something new: working with laborers to rebuild what was destroyed, clearing out the Manor with donations to Ministry archives, providing much-needed space to St Mungos so they could transfer their therapy work—occupational and mental—to external premises.

Harry had ignored it—mostly. He took note, raised his eyebrows here and there, but Malfoy was just a footnote in his hectic daily life, and he had never bothered to think about it too deeply.

Now that he was faced with the real thing, he was beginning to wonder if there was more to it. If maybe these small changes that Malfoy was making didn’t extend to something more, something deeper. Which meant that Harry might have to change too.

“Don’t overthink it, Potter,” Malfoy said finally.

Harry didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing. Eventually, he fell asleep.

 

*

 

“Wake up, Potter.”

Harry jolted awake abruptly, torn out of the warm cocoon of hazy sleep and into wakefulness by Malfoy’s clipped voice.

At first, he thought he’d tumbled from a pleasant dream into a nightmare until it came back to him. He scrambled for his glasses on the bedside table and blinked repeatedly until Malfoy’s face sharpened into view behind the lenses.

Older than he remembered. Definitely not a dream, he thought, hoisting himself up until he was sitting properly in bed.

Malfoy stared down at him without expression. Harry became increasingly aware of just how little he was wearing in his—technically Ron’s—old Chudley Cannons’ jersey compared to Malfoy, who was fully dressed. Hastily, he pulled the blanket up to his chin, but the damage was already done.

“Of course you’re a heavy sleeper,” Malfoy muttered at last.

“It’s Ron’s!” Harry blurted.

Malfoy stopped midway through turning about.

“What?” he asked, frowning.

“The shirt: it’s… never mind.”

There was a long moment of awkward silence between them.

“Everybody knows you support the Nundus since they signed Hedley. Come on: we’re already late for breakfast. Trust you to sleep through the start of our seminars,” Malfoy muttered at last. He gave Harry one last look and finally stepped away from the bed. Harry sank back down onto his pillows and blew out a long breath.

Well, that had certainly been an interesting way to wake up. Harry could honestly say he’d never experienced anything like it before, and hoped never to again. Just what was Malfoy playing at?

“Potter,” Malfoy growled from across the room, and Harry practically leapt from the bed in shock.

“Coming!” he laughed nervously and put the thought out of mind as he scrambled to dress in record time. Just like being back at school, he reflected.

As he pulled his shirt down, he glanced up and realised Malfoy had been watching him intently from the door. As soon as their eyes connected, Malfoy looked away hastily and stepped out of the room.

“Er…” Harry started.

“Hurry up,” Malfoy snapped, and when Harry stepped out after him, the back of his neck was a faint shade of pink he’d never seen before on Malfoy. “I’ve probably already missed getting any of the decent bacon.”

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” Harry said heatedly, stung by his sudden waspishness. “You didn’t have to wake me up.”

“Of course I didn’t _have_ to.”

Harry felt like tearing out his hair. Just when he felt he’d begun to figure out Malfoy, he pulled something like this and Harry couldn’t make heads or tails of him. After last night’s conversation, he’d expected… he didn’t know what he expected, but reverting back to snappish, standoffish, teenage Malfoy wasn’t it. The night before, he’d said he was trying. What exactly that meant, Harry wasn’t sure, but it sounded like… self-improvement, maybe? Not being such an arse at the very least.

Was all of this, today, some kind of response to what he’d said last night before they’d gone to sleep? Was he trying to be nicer? If so, fat lot of good that effort seemed to be doing. Was he maybe embarrassed by what they’d said yesterday? Or, more to the point, was he embarrassed by what _Harry_ had said when he had apologised for making Malfoy feel unwanted?

Harry opened his mouth to say something—anything—but nothing came out. He tried several more times on the trip down to the Great Hall, but each time, the words stalled on his tongue or got lost in his throat before they were able to make it out his mouth, and they spent the trip in tense, uncomfortable silence.

When the doors to the Great Hall came into view, Harry tried again.

“Malfoy—” he started, only to be interrupted.

“ _There_ you are!” It was Hermione. “Where have you been? Breakfast is almost over. If we don’t hurry, you won’t have anything until lunch. No, don’t argue, come on, before Ron eats everything himself.”

Then, hardly even looking at Malfoy, she turned and headed into the Hall.

Harry hesitated.

“Malfoy, look, I know you’re trying, and I’m glad. It might be nice to get to know a Malfoy who isn’t a prick through and through.” He ran a hand through his hair distractedly, taking stock of what Malfoy’s face was doing. He’d started pinking again, though this time probably not from embarrassment. Harry rushed on, trying to beat him to the punch if only to avoid an argument and so he’d still be in time to grab a slice of toast if he was lucky.

“I’m not good at this, okay? This…” he floundered, looking for the right word, “Closure and trying to get along thing. I’ve been told I’m pretty clumsy when it comes to people, but if you want to give it a go, I want to try, alright? Maybe we can be… I don’t know, friends? At some point?”

He didn’t give Malfoy the chance to respond. He felt awkward and uncomfortable, and so turned on his heel and hurried away from what he was pretty sure was a stunned or maybe speechless Malfoy.

“Hey,” Harry said as he sat down across from Neville upon reaching their table. Ron, to his left, was spooning the last of the scrambled eggs onto his plate while Hermione immediately started chatting to someone Harry’d never seen before. What he’d just said to Malfoy was still buzzing through his head, and in an effort to distract himself from freaking out at the prospect of having suggested friendship to _Malfoy_ of all people, he turned to Ron. “Is it public knowledge that I’m a Mozambique fan?”

“What?”

“Quidditch,” he explained impatiently. “Do most people know I prefer the Mozambique Nundus?”

“What? Since when? I thought you supported the Cannons?”

“Two years. They signed Hedley for seeker and Fayose and Carilo for beaters,” Harry said distractedly, thoughts whizzing through his head at a million miles an hour. He hadn’t thought it was common knowledge; Ron seemed surprised if not disappointed he wasn’t rooting for _his_ favourite team, and Harry generally told Ron everything. Some things. Most things.

How the hell had Malfoy found out? Surely somebody must have told him. It wasn’t like he had gone and talked to Rita Skeeter about it. He didn’t think any of his friends would have told Malfoy anything, even something as insignificant as his preferred Quidditch team. In fact, most people probably didn’t talk to Malfoy about him at all.

He pushed the thought away and focused on shovelling as much food into his mouth as he could before the plates disappeared. By the time he’d gotten through two full helpings of pancakes smothered in syrup and cream, along with a hefty side of bacon, he’d managed to forget the whole thing.

“I heard the seminars have only been added to the curriculum this year,” Hermione told him as they filed out of the hall. She was so excited she nearly dropped her book bag three times as she was trying to shove her schedule away. “Previous years only had to complete their assignments and report to their assigned Professor. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Ron and Harry shared a look. “Yeah,” they both replied, in equal tones of dread.

Harry heard a faint snort behind him, but when he turned around the only person in sight was Malfoy, and he was looking straight ahead with a bored expression.

“Don’t worry,” Ron told him in a whisper when Hermione wasn’t listening. “Just think of all the _good_ classes at Hogwarts. It’ll be just like them. It’s not going to be like Binns or anything.”

Sadly, he couldn’t have been more wrong.

By lunchtime, Harry was wondering if it was really worth it. What was he honestly going to do with his Transfiguration apprenticeship? Ron and Seamus were training under the Aurors, Hermione was completing her Healer specialisation in medicinal herbs, and Malfoy—actually, come to think of it, he had no idea what Malfoy was doing, but he probably had it all sorted out too. He’d picked Transfiguration because it meant he got to delay making a firm decision for another few years, and specialising in a field like Transfiguration could always be put to use later on. But how long was he going to feel like he was just floating around aimlessly?

Very soon, he realised he was far more interested in watching Malfoy than listening to the Professors talk. He found himself trying to remember back to eighth year and what he’d been like then. He couldn’t imagine Malfoy doing anything without a pack of cronies around him, but here he was, and surely he had been then as well? Had he always listened so carefully to the Professor? All his memories of Malfoy were of snide whispers and hidden smirks. This quiet Malfoy was someone new.

Before he knew it, the day had ended, and he had barely half a page of notes to show for it.

“Were you having trouble focusing today, Harry?” Hermione asked, concerned, when he’d sat down at dinner. “I saw your parchment was blank for most of that session on bimodal seedpods.”

“Huh? Oh, nah,” Harry quickly grabbed a serving of pie so he could avoid looking at her. “I was paying too much attention to take notes.”

Hermione hummed thoughtfully. “Yes, you did look particularly _attentive_.” She eyed him shrewdly.

He cleared his throat and looked away. A flash of blond hair across the table caught his eye, and he looked up to find Malfoy watching him. He was sitting between Lavender and Neville, with a full person’s worth of space on either side of him. It made him look smaller. Their eyes met, and Harry looked away.

This time, when Malfoy waited for him at the doors, Harry walked over deliberately.

“You coming up, then?” Harry asked, feeling awkward as he saw Neville and Ron turn toward them. “I think Seamus brought a couple of bottles with him.”

Malfoy made a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat and glanced at the others. “I’ll see you later on, I think,” he said quietly.

“Oi, let’s go to Harry’s room,” Seamus called out suddenly. “It’s the biggest.”

“Oh, and it’s warm there!” Hermione pointed out, looking pleased. “Yes, let’s do that.”

Harry studied her for any signs of an ulterior motive, but reluctantly decided that she just looked cold. He couldn’t really say no to that.

“Alright.” He turned to Malfoy, who looked a little pale. “Is that okay?”

“Sure,” Malfoy said, lifting his chin.

They followed Seamus up the stairs, and Harry realised that, sadly, their room _was_ the biggest. He hadn’t noticed. It had felt so much smaller last night.

“Bloody hell, it’s easy to see who the favourite is, isn’t it?” Seamus said, dropping down onto one of the unused beds. “You got a six person dorm.”

“Oh, I know why it’s so warm here,” Hermione said, staring suddenly at the far wall. “You’re right next to the kitchens.”

Malfoy sat on the edge of his bed, propped back on his hands in a clear attempt to be casual. It wasn’t fooling anyone. Although… Harry looked around. No one else was really watching Malfoy, and Neville had even sat on the ground at the foot of his bed.

Maybe it only wasn’t fooling Harry.

“So why didn’t you pick the Auror program, Harry?” Seamus asked, taking a swig from an unlabelled bottle of brown liquid and passing it over. “I thought you’d be dead set on it.”

Harry took a sip from the bottle, coughed up most of his insides, and then took a longer pull now that he knew what he was in for. “Don’t really fancy being an Auror,” he said, passing the bottle across the floor to Neville. “Sorry, it’s not much more exciting than that. I figure I can’t go wrong with a Transfiguration specialisation, and I can work the rest out later on.”

Neville managed to take a long drink without coughing once and passed the bottle back to Malfoy. Harry wondered for a moment if he might refuse, but he picked up the bottle, wiped it delicately with his sleeve, and took a sip. Harry’s eyes fell to his throat as he swallowed, and he quickly looked away.

“What about you, Malfoy?” Ron asked, already halfway through a bottle of beer he’d pulled from somewhere. “What are you even studying?”

Harry felt a rush of affection towards his friend as he realised that Ron was making an effort to include Malfoy in the conversation. He froze, wondering why the hell he cared.

“Potions,” he said flatly, his usual bored expression firmly in place. Then, something crossed his face and he pulled himself up a little straighter. “No one else is studying it here, of course, since Ilvermorny is hailed as the best for post-graduation Potions. But you can’t get fresh unicorn hair at Ilvermorny, and—” he broke off suddenly, as if he’d remembered his audience. “And I need that,” he finished, stilted.

The moment of silence went on too long before Hermione cleared her throat and began to ask how he was finding it so far. But despite the strangeness, Harry noticed that Malfoy was beginning to relax.

As the night went on, without meaning to, Harry found himself matching Malfoy drink for drink, keeping his pace. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t like the idea of being drunker than him. He didn’t mind losing a bit of control around the others, but it was the thought of what might happen once they left, what he might say or do, that made him stiffen up and refuse to drink too deeply.

Because he was watching Malfoy so closely, taking care not to drink any more than him, he noticed that Malfoy hardly drank. He either passed the bottle off or took a sip so deceptively long that it looked like he was keeping up when he really only swallowed once. The others soon slipped into a comfortably drunken state, and Malfoy relaxed against the pillows, his cheeks pleasantly flushed and his guard—for once—completely down.

Harry pretended to join in with the others as they laughed and made increasingly ridiculous jokes, but really, he watched Malfoy. Their eyes met several times, and each time Malfoy’s gaze was just as sharp as if he hadn’t drunk at all. He needed this, Harry realised. He needed to think that no one was watching him closely, that he was more alert and prepared than anyone else. That way, no one could catch him unaware.

After that, Harry pretended not to watch him at all. He was just about to suggest it was time they all go to sleep, when Seamus suddenly shushed everyone.

“What’s that noise?” he said, looking around in alarm. “I thought I heard someone scream.”

Everyone fell silent, hearts thumping. Then, they heard it.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Hermione muttered, her cheeks flaming. “Quick, let’s go. We don’t need to hear that.”

Neville snorted, covering his mouth and trying to pretend he hadn’t. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Sh’kinda funny. Lil’.. lil’ bit.”

Seamus burst out laughing, but he stood up anyway and stretched. “Oh, who cares? They’re having fun. Good on ‘em.”

Harry suddenly realised what they were all talking about, and he felt his ears grow hot. One look at Ron, who had his hand clamped over his mouth trying not to laugh, told him he’d just heard it too.

“Right,” Ron said, pursing his lips together and looking at the ceiling. “Time for bed before we figure out who it is. Night!”

They all said goodnight, and, quicker than Harry felt was fair, he and Malfoy were alone in the room again. Now that it was silent, the noises coming from the other room were louder. Harry was furiously glad that he couldn’t identify the voices.

“Well, they definitely are having fun, aren’t they?” Malfoy said drily.

Harry looked over in surprise, and then realised that Malfoy had spoken mostly to himself. The puzzle pieces joined together, and he became aware that Malfoy genuinely thought he was drunk. He wondered what Malfoy was like to talk to when he wasn’t running everything he said through five layers of self-preservation.

Before he could stop himself, Harry did his best impression of Ron after too many beers. “Wha’ssat?”

Then, he immediately dropped back on his pillows and pretended to be asleep, not because he was attempting to pull off the charade of drunkenness, but because he suddenly and fervently wished he was unconscious. Why was he trying to prolong this conversation? What possible good could come of it?

Malfoy snorted, and Harry couldn’t help but open his eyes and stare, shocked that Malfoy could make a noise so carefree and ridiculous. Malfoy didn’t notice, too busy pulling on his pajamas and climbing into bed.

“You’re smashed, Potter,” he said, and he sounded almost fond.

Harry’s stomach did a little flip, and he was suddenly desperate for an answer to a question he didn’t know how to word. Before he could try, Malfoy looked over at the wall where the noise was coming from, one eyebrow raised in wry amusement.

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” he muttered, and this time there was no doubt that Harry wasn’t meant to hear it.

Harry stared at the ceiling, eyes wide in the darkness. “I’ve never had sex before,” he said, a split second before his mind caught up to his mouth and he realised two things very quickly: firstly, that he actually was quite a bit more drunk than he had thought, and secondly, that the only way out of this situation was to dive headfirst into the lake and never come out.

Just as he was planning his goodbye letters, he heard a quiet laugh from the other bed.

“Neither have I.”

Harry lay awake long after Malfoy was peacefully snoring, his mind racing in directions he tried, vainly, to prevent it from going.

 

*

 

It turned out that two days seemed to be the turning point for their peers. In that time, they had quickly tumbled through the introductory and settling stages of acquaintanceship with their roommates and blazed right through getting to know each other on a more personal level… in bed.

Harry didn’t understand it. In particular, he couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that people were brazen enough to have sex so baldly and without any discernable need for privacy or any consideration for the people who may or may not have been unwittingly handed front row seats for the showing.

Several times since that second night, Harry had very nearly walked in on a number of people about to get a shag on on the way to their rooms. He’d gone beet red and stammered out an apology before hastily, and clumsily, backtracking out the way he’d come.

He’d just come from an incredibly dry and vicious seminar about the theory of Transfiguration that had lasted five long, ghastly hours, when he stumbled across yet another couple. This time, with the rules of intent when intending to perform a Transfiguration still ringing in his ears, Harry didn’t have the energy to be mortified.

Anthony Goldstein, with his trousers around his ankles, and a semi-naked lady friend had somehow ended up against a wall and were just about to get on with it. It looked like they would have, too, had Harry not stumbled upon them.

“For Merlin’s sake,” he glowered at them. “Haven’t you got a room to be doing that in?”

He didn’t bother waiting for a response and stomped off to his room. The door slammed behind him, and his head _thunked_ as it hit the wood heavily.

At his desk in the corner, Malfoy turned to look at him.

“Long day?” he asked, looking for all the world like he didn’t actually care about the answer, and Harry bared his teeth in annoyance.

Malfoy was trying to—bizarrely—be a better person, but he was still as much of a prick as he’d ever been.

“I don’t understand it,” he said instead, after he’d sucked in a lungfull of air and counted to ten slowly. “How the hell do people have the energy for sex? I’m run bloody ragged just with my seminars and lectures, and we haven’t even _started_ the practical work. Where are they keeping the… the… the _motivation?_ ”

Malfoy blinked. His mouth opened and closed several times as he struggled to find something to say. Harry hoped it wasn’t going to be something that started an argument; he didn’t have the energy to be pissed off.

Thankfully, he seemed to be in somewhat of a benevolent mood today and took pity on Harry’s obviously frazzled nerves.

“Well,” he said after a moment had passed and Harry had kicked off the door and made his way over to his bed. All the while, Malfoy tracked his progress through the room, swivelling the chair around to follow him. “I imagine it’s pleasurable once you get started.”

Harry was unappreciative of the blatant sarcasm.

“No shit, Sherlock,” he said.

“What? Never mind. I’m assuming the pleasure is enough to provide the motivation itself. Or maybe it’s an organic confluence. Under the right circumstances with the right components, it just… happens.”

Harry scowled at him. “You don’t have to make everything sound like a potion, you know.”

Malfoy shrugged one of his shoulders elegantly and neglected to comment.

Harry blew out a sigh and leaned back against the bedframe just as a long, tremulous moan spilled through the door. Harry groaned, snagging the topmost pillow and attempting to smother himself with it.

“This is hell,” he complained. “This is hell and I don’t even know what I’m missing.”

There was silence then, broken only by the sounds of increasingly vigorous vocalisations from beyond their door.

“I wish—” Malfoy started. He sounded hesitant, almost nervous, if Harry were to guess. He’d gotten a little better at reading Malfoy these last few days. It was easiest when Harry wasn’t looking at him; he still had trouble with his face. “I wish I knew what it was like. Sex.”

Harry removed the pillow from his face and sat up at that, peering shrewdly at Malfoy, who was playing with his hands in his lap at the desk and resolutely refusing to meet Harry’s eyes.

They hadn’t talked about the conversation they’d had the other night when they’d been drinking. They hadn’t even mentioned sharing that they were both virgins. Harry’d woken up the next morning half convinced it’d been a dream, but this definitely wasn’t a dream now. He pinched his arm discreetly and the resounding pain told him it definitely, definitely wasn’t a dream.

He licked his lips, thinking fast.

They were going to talk about it now, it seemed. Thoughts raced through Harry’s head. What did Malfoy want him to say? What _could_ he say that wouldn’t lodge his foot so far down his throat he’d be talking funny for a week?

At the desk, Malfoy released a little sigh. His shoulders were hunched almost imperceptibly, and he started to turn away. Harry could tell that if he didn’t say something right now, all progress they’d made toward trusting each other and building… building whatever _this_ was would be lost. Somehow, he knew that if he let him, Malfoy would shutter himself away.

It was startling to realise how much he had come to expect a less bastardy Malfoy in his life. It was crazy to think of how little time had passed and how comfortable, if not familiar, Malfoy’s presence was in his daily life. Harry came to realise he didn’t want whatever facade of himself Malfoy was sure to put on if he didn’t say anything.

Stupidly, and in a very Harry-like fashion, which had got him into trouble many times before and probably would many more times in the future, he opened his mouth and didn’t think at all.

“What if you could. Know what it was like. Sex, I mean.”

Malfoy stopped dead, and his eyes flew up to meet Harry’s. It felt scarily like they were frozen together in that moment, like if Harry so much as dared to breathe or think or move, the moment would shatter and they’d combust or something equally horrible.

The instinct to take the words back immediately was almost overwhelmingly impossible to beat back, but he didn’t. He’d said the words now, and even as he cursed himself internally and felt petrified by fear, they were out there and he wasn’t going to take them back.

“What, exactly, are you saying, Potter?”

Harry cringed. He had no idea what he was saying. The whole point of it was that he hadn’t been thinking when he’d said it. He moved uncomfortably on the bed.

“I don’t really know,” he said truthfully. “I just… we’re both… I don’t know. It’s kind of embarrassing to admit we’re still virgins at this age and with _everybody_ —”

As if to punctuate the point, a particularly loud expletive was shouted, followed by a long, drawn out moan. Harry warmed to his point at that, convincing himself even as he was maybe, possibly, hopefully convincing Malfoy.

“What if we didn’t have to stay virgins? You said yourself that sex is probably pretty good. You want to know what it feels like, and so do I, so why not? Why not us try it together and see what we make of it? We’re both new at it, so it’s not like it’d be any more embarrassing than not knowing anything when your partner knows loads.”

Malfoy’s face was so blank it was starting to become scary. The fact that he couldn’t read it even a little bit, with all of his practice practically living in Malfoy’s pocket lately, and with him trying to be more expressive, made Harry’s skin feel like a million ants were crawling on it and his stomach go wobbly.

He was just starting to believe that Malfoy would never respond when he finally moved. It was just to lean back against the chair more firmly as he perused Harry with what might have been interest or perhaps curiosity, but it made Harry feel loads better.

“You’re proposing a sort of friends with benefits deal.”

Harry shrugged helplessly and fidgeted with the edge of the pillowcase in his lap.

When he put it like that, it all sounded pretty stupid. Childish, even, like something he might have read, not real life.

“I guess,” he mumbled. “Look, if you’re not interested, you can forget I said anything. It’s not a big deal.”

“No,” Malfoy said slowly, and something in his voice made Harry look up.

He hadn’t been certain, before, if Malfoy’s expression had been interested. He was certain now.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested.” He ran the tip of his quill idly across his chin as he studied Harry. “I’m just surprised you suggested it. Just to be clear—this is a convenient arrangement, nothing more?”

“No strings,” Harry agreed.

After a long, drawn-out moment, Malfoy nodded.

“So you want to try it?” Harry’s voice was a little breathless, even to his own ears.

Malfoy met Harry’s eyes and nodded.

“Yes.”

Suddenly, the enormity of what he’d proposed—what had been accepted—hit him, and Harry was overwhelmed with a sense of panic. Was he supposed to make a move now? What was considered appropriate? Should he just launch himself at Malfoy and have at it? No, of course not—that was ridiculous, and probably disrespectful, and, Merlin, now that he was thinking about it, how had he never noticed how good Malfoy looked?

A faint pink tinge rose on Malfoy’s cheeks, and he exhaled in a rush, the corners of his mouth lifting into a fraction of a smile. “I must confess,” he said drily. “My adrenaline is kicking in and my first impulse is to insult you. Can I make fun of your hair a little? It will make me feel better.”

Harry huffed a laugh, slightly offended, but before he could say anything, Malfoy suddenly put down the quill and turned to face Harry properly.

“I’m joking, for Merlin’s sake. I’m not going to—” He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes a little wider than usual. “This is strange, Potter, we both know that. But… I’m here, I’m willing, and…” The careful, guarded look that Harry was so used to dropped completely away, and he was left with just Malfoy. For a moment, it was breathtaking. “And I don’t know what to do.” 

They stared at one another. Malfoy’s face was open and honest. Harry had no idea what his own face was doing.

Harry took a deep breath, and asked, “Can I kiss you?”

After what felt like several years, Malfoy nodded. He got up from the bed, the pillow dropping beside him onto the floor, and crossed the room.

Malfoy’s hands gripped his legs nervously for a second, before he made them relax. He stood up, and Harry realised that Malfoy was still a good deal taller than him. Harry lifted a hand, chickened out on the way to cupping Malfoy’s jaw, and rested his palm on Malfoy’s chest instead. It was warm, and he could feel Malfoy’s heart beating furiously beneath his fingers.

With a little surge of Gryffindor bravery, he leaned up and kissed him. He felt Malfoy give a small jolt of surprise, and then his arms were coming around Harry’s waist and pulling him closer. Their lips parted, and Harry felt a rush of something in his chest, perhaps surprise that they had gotten this far without hexing each other. Whatever it was, it was warm and bright, and he was delighted that his madness had led them here, to this moment.

Malfoy began to walk them backwards until the back of Harry’s knees hit the bed and he dropped back onto it, bringing Malfoy with him. A small gasp escaped Malfoy just before he managed to catch himself, propped up with his arms on either side of Harry’s shoulders. He looked breathless and a little giddy, which was oddly endearing.

Harry reached up, this time running his hands along Malfoy’s smooth jaw, and pulled him back down into another kiss.

He felt a strange familiarity at the urgency that was building between them. It made him think of Quidditch games, racing side by side for the snitch, or even of arguments where they were standing two feet away from each other, each desperate to gain the upper hand. Funnily enough, he didn’t care who had the upper hand right now, and when they both began to slide their palms down each other’s chests, reaching blindly for buttons and zips, panting into each others mouths, he felt a momentarily overwhelming sensation that they should have tried this earlier.

Malfoy pushed Harry’s pants down around his thighs, lifting himself up and back so that Harry could do the same to him, and then he dropped back down beside him, his hand resting against Harry’s hips.

“Can I?” He breathed, his lips brushing against Harry’s mouth as he spoke.

His eyelids were lowered, but Harry could see a glimpse of grey beneath the shadow, watching him intently. It made him shiver. Only then did the reality of it hit him, and he felt a jolt of fear. Was Malfoy going to jump straight to…?

“Er,” he said, trying to think how to ask and feeling his cheeks flame at the realisation of just how stupid he’d been.

He was an idiot. He’d jumped blindly into this, and now Malfoy was going to laugh at him, thinking he was some scared little virgin. It wasn’t that he wanted to stop completely, he just wanted to… not jump straight into anal sex. But of course, Malfoy would find that weak, and he probably wouldn’t want to fool around with someone who wanted to take things so slowly.

Malfoy pulled back immediately, the eager anticipation on his face fading to be replaced by what looked like, against everything Harry would have expected, concern.

“What is it? Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” Harry said, feeling himself beginning to soften despite his words. “I don’t. I just—what exactly did you want to do tonight?”

A look of comprehension crossed Malfoy’s face, and he lowered himself down beside Harry, so they were both lying side by side on the bed. Harry was acutely aware of his trousers pulled halfway down his legs, and he wasn’t sure whether it would be more appropriate to pull them up or shove them down, so he just left them there.

“I wasn’t sure,” Malfoy admitted. “But…”

Harry felt him turn so that he was looking at Harry, breath ghosting across his cheek. He swallowed and continued to look at the ceiling.

“I’m… perhaps… a little relieved that you don’t want to dive straight into the obvious definition.”

Harry was so surprised that he turned to face him without thinking, their noses bumping together and knocking his glasses askew. He pulled back and straightened them, and, in the process, noticed the way that Malfoy’s hands hovered awkwardly. He ended up settling them on his own hips, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his pants either. He felt a twinge of anxiety that he’d ruined everything.

“You don’t want to have sex?” he asked, looking back at Malfoy’s face.

As he did, he realised that everything he expected to see there—contemptuousness, arrogance, superiority—was absent. Malfoy wasn’t sneering at him, he wasn’t laughing that ‘the Saviour’ was nervous in the bedroom, he wasn’t even annoyed. The same honesty that had been open on his face earlier was still there, and it was this more than anything that made Harry suddenly realise that they were in this together.

“I do,” Malfoy said, the words tumbling out in his rush to correct Harry. He shoved his hair back from his forehead, the gesture making him look uncharacteristically messy and unsure. “But I want to enjoy it, Potter, and as of yet I have no frame of reference for what that would feel like.” He paused, and then, looking faintly disgusted with himself, added, “And, oddly enough, part of that enjoyment means that you have to feel good as well.””

At the sound of another enthusiastic moan from the other rooms, he gave Harry a wry grin. It made his face seem different, like a Malfoy that Harry might have imagined in a dream once.

Slowly, Harry took in Malfoy’s words, forced himself to hear them as they were—not as his insecurities might make him hear them—and smiled.

“Slow is good.”

Malfoy’s relieved exhalation was barely audible, but Harry heard it all the same.

“If you want to stop at any time, Potter, just say the word.”

“You too.”

Malfoy nodded and tentatively reached up to brush Harry’s hair out of his eyes. The gesture seemed instinctive, and his eyes widened a little as he did, like he had surprised himself with the action. His eyes fell to Harry’s lips, and Harry leaned forward, carefully, hesitantly, until their mouths were barely touching again. Malfoy tasted like chocolate and citrus, like he’d just eaten a chocolate orange. Without even thinking about it, Harry deepened the kiss just to taste him more.

He was hard again before long, and he could feel from the way Malfoy carefully tried to avoid brushing against him that he was, too. His hands fell to Malfoy’s chest, to his stomach, to his hips, and he hovered there, nervous but eager for more.

He felt Malfoy’s hand making small circles across his hip bone, and without meaning to, he moaned. He’d never before wanted anything as badly as he wanted Malfoy’s hand on his cock right now.

“Can I touch you?” Malfoy breathed, his usually aristocratic tones already broken and ragged.

“Yeah. Can—”

Malfoy nodded eagerly before he could finish the question, and then their hands closed around each other and Harry began moving, mouthing against Malfoy’s neck as he tried and failed to keep still.

It was all at once strange and familiar. He tried to find the angle that he liked on himself, but his hand wouldn’t go that way, and he couldn’t get his position quite right. Malfoy groaned, coming up onto his elbow and leaning over Harry slightly, which was easier, but meant that Harry was overcome with the sudden desire to kiss Malfoy again. He reached up with his left hand and grabbed Malfoy by the back of the neck, pulling him down into a kiss just as he began moving faster with his right, responding to the urgency of Malfoy’s mouth.

It was, he decided, a little messy, and he wasn’t sure he had enough room to move, though from the sounds he was making, Malfoy wasn’t complaining.

He winced suddenly, as Malfoy’s grip tightened just a little too much around his sensitive head.

“A little softer,” he murmured.

Malfoy’s eyes snapped open, a sheepish look crossing his face. “Sorry.” His voice was rough. “Is that better?”

Harry nodded, and Malfoy dropped back down so they were side by side, rocking gently into each other’s hands with their foreheads pressed together. It took him a moment to find a rhythm, with Malfoy grinding up against him, and it was doubly hard because he was lying on his right side and could only move his arm in tiny strokes. He switched to his left hand, and Malfoy’s head dropped back against the pillow, his mouth falling open with a gasp.

Harry grinned involuntarily and propped himself up on his right elbow. He had a better angle that way, and he could see every expression that passed across Malfoy’s face. It was exhilarating. Malfoy’s face was completely open, wonder and disbelief crossing it in equal parts as he bit his lip and tried to hold back his whimpering. Every now and then, his hold on Harry would grow slack, like he forgot what he was doing, and Harry would grind against him gently until he remembered and began stroking again with fervor.

He focused on the way Malfoy’s cock felt in his hand, trying to pay attention to the times when Malfoy’s grip would become loose and his mouth would open in ecstasy, so that he could do it again. It was difficult because it felt like every part of his being was centered on the hand around his cock and the careful way that Malfoy was stroking him.

Once or twice, Malfoy’s forehead drew together, and he would grab Harry with his free hand and guide him slower, softer, while the hand that gripped Harry’s cock mirrored those same movements. It was almost too much, when he did that, like they were sharing something more than just a convenient release. Harry wanted more of it. He wanted Malfoy to feel comfortable enough to show Harry everything that brought him pleasure, and then he wanted to do just that.

“Merlin,” Malfoy breathed. “Just like that—please—”

Their hands were slick now, and Harry knew he wasn’t going to last very long. He didn’t even have the capacity to care right now, to be embarrassed. For the first time, he didn’t feel the need to make some kind of ridiculous competition out of everything, and by the sounds Malfoy was making, he didn’t either.

“I’m going to—” Harry began, but broke off, burying his face in Malfoy’s neck. Malfoy stroked him through his orgasm until Harry pulled away with a gasp and flopped back against the pillows. “Just a sec,” he breathed.

Malfoy grinned, unmistakable delight on his face as he lay back and waited for Harry to catch his breath. After a moment, Harry pulled himself back up onto his elbow and ran his hand along Malfoy’s cock, pushing his hand aside from where he had been wanking himself. The smile dropped away as Malfoy’s eyes fluttered closed and he moaned, soft and ragged.

Harry stroked him, unable to look away, and before long Malfoy was coming, too, his neck flushed as he turned away from Harry into the pillow.

Harry took the moment to observe Malfoy—really observe him—now that he wasn’t distracted by the feeling of a hand that wasn’t his own on his cock and then the euphoric rush of orgasming. He was facing away from Harry, head nestled into the edge of the pillow, but his eyes were closed and he was breathing deeply. His cheeks were flushed with perhaps the most colour Harry had ever seen on them.

If he were to have walked through the door at that exact moment, he would have thought Malfoy was asleep. Somehow, the knowledge that what they’d done had caused Malfoy to look this way made something pleasant tingle in his chest.

When he’d suggested they do this, he certainly hadn’t been prepared for the actuality of it—of any of it, really. At that moment, however, he couldn’t help but think that it was one of his more brilliant ideas, and for once, he was glad of his habit of speaking before his brain could catch up.

“That was… wow,” was all he could say.

Malfoy turned his head a degree toward Harry, but didn’t say anything in response. It was clear he was listening, though, so with only a little awkwardness, Harry suffered on in finding the right words.

“It was better than I thought it would be. You know, you feel one way when you wank by yourself, but with another person…. It was… y’know, _different._ ”

Malfoy cracked an eye open to peer at him.

“Oh,” he sighed. “Is this what you’re like after sex?”

Harry frowned.

“If you mean normal, then yeah, I suppose so.”

“No. Redundant. _‘Different’_ , really?”

“Well, it was!” Harry retorted cleverly. “Don’t tell me it felt exactly the same for you as when you do it yourself. It was better, right? Different.”

Groaning, Malfoy turned onto his side and sat up at the waist so that he was looking down on Harry. He didn’t look as smug as Harry might have expected him to. It made him feel hopeful that Malfoy wasn’t just in it for the one time, and that he wasn’t going to pretend none of it had happened. Instead, some of the vulnerability from earlier was back as he scrutinised Harry from his vantage point.

Harry supposed that once you’d held another man’s prick in your hand, you couldn’t just go back to a business-as-usual mentality. At least, he couldn’t. It wouldn’t feel right to just ignore Malfoy’s existence after this—not that he wanted to.

“It was better,” Malfoy confessed, drawing Harry out of his thoughts. When Harry simply stared at him, he smiled faintly and conceded: “Different.”

Harry studied him for a moment, but no more descriptions were forthcoming. It seemed that Malfoy was content to leave it at that—moment over, time to move on. Harry wasn’t sure how he felt about that. If he was going to do this thing with Malfoy of all people, he didn’t want to rely on the two of them just guessing that they were doing everything right. Malfoy had already admitted that part of the enjoyment came from knowing that the other person was having a good time as well. Harry had spent too much of his life dealing with half-truths and deceptive smiles; he didn’t want to go ahead if there was any chance they weren’t being open.

“How was it? For you, I mean. It was good for me. Great. Brilliant.”

“Merlin, are we really going to have this conversation? Now?”

Harry frowned, sitting up, too, suddenly very aware that they were both naked with their cocks still out. He pulled the comforter over his lap self-consciously. Malfoy, watching him, raised a pale eyebrow as if to say, _‘you’re shy_ now?’ Thankfully, he didn’t actually comment out loud.

“I figure if we’re going to do this whole friends with benefits thing, we should probably talk about it. Things we do and don’t like so we don’t end up doing something one or either of us doesn’t enjoy.”

Malfoy huffed. “You think I wouldn’t say anything on the chance it might _offend_ you?”

When he put it like that, it sounded perfectly stupid. Harry had never known Malfoy to take his feelings into account when he said anything. At least, not in a positive way. There’d been the whole thing with the dementors in third year just _because_ he knew it’d screw with Harry’s emotions.

“No,” he dragged the vowel out. “But it would help me probably figure out how to make things more, erm, pleasurable for you in future? I can go first if you like. I liked it. I _really_ liked it. It was better than I ever imagined having someone else’s hands on me might be. I liked it when we got into a rhythm together.” His face felt hot at what else he had liked, but he wanted to be honest, _wanted_ Malfoy to know this next bit: “I liked it when you were looking at me.”

He had looked away, so he didn’t see Malfoy’s exact reaction, but the inhale that followed his words was sharp, and he could almost perfectly imagine Malfoy’s eyes widening, his nostrils flaring, the way his mouth might have fallen just the tiniest bit slack in response.

Harry’s heart was beating quickly. He fancied Malfoy might be able to hear it with how loud it felt in his ears.

“It wasn’t at all like I expected,” Malfoy said carefully. “Obviously, you need some work. I had to adjust your technique several times.”

Harry’s heart squeezed and he shut his eyes in preparation for the ‘let’s not do this again’ that was sure to follow. Now that he’d had a taste, he realised he didn’t want it to end.

“Even though I’ve probably done better on my own, I... I liked it.” Malfoy continued in a small voice, and Harry’s eyes flew open. Malfoy looked both nervous and overwhelmed. Harry’s arms felt almost like jelly.

Malfoy wasn’t going to end it. Elation surged through him, and he let himself fall back on the bed, a massive grin on his face.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” Malfoy snapped, though Harry noticed he wasn’t moving away and didn’t especially look like he was going to hex Harry in the immediate future. “You caught me off guard tonight is all. Next time, I’ll be more prepared. You were the one who came faster than a virgin being touched for the first time.”

He couldn’t even begin to care about the insult in Malfoy’s words, he was so relieved that it wasn’t going to come to a sudden end. That, if nothing else, was insurance that Malfoy wouldn’t go spreading rumours about Harry’s lack of sexual prowess. Even if he did, Harry had a pretty good idea how to retaliate. And what did it matter, anyways? They’d just end up humiliating and exposing each other to their peers’ ridicule.

“I _am_ a virgin,” he said, not with even a little bit of the embarrassment he’d felt before at saying so. “And you came just after me.”

“You’re insufferable. Why did I think this was a good idea?” Malfoy groaned. He got up, apparently unselfconscious of his nudity, and frowned at the mess they’d made of themselves and the bed. He fished for his wand in the bunch of his pants. “I hope you’re decent at cleaning charms, Potter. I won’t clean up after you every time.”

“Pretty good,” he said, and yelped as Malfoy turned his wand on Harry and the uncomfortable, sticky mess on his thighs and abdomen disappeared and was replaced by a cool, tingly sensation.

Malfoy’s eyes roamed his face and down his torso one last time before he hummed lazily and retreated to the other side of the room. Harry watched him go unabashedly, admiring the pale curve of his arse until it disappeared behind a new pair of pants.

He didn’t get up until the bell for dinner sounded and Malfoy had to kick his shin to rouse him from his thoughts so they could go together, something that was becoming tradition more than habit it seemed. Harry was distracted all the way through the rest of the evening with turning the thought of Malfoy over and over in his mind and examining what had happened at great length.

He went to bed that night making a mental list of all the different things he’d like to try with Malfoy, and for perhaps the first time in his life, he felt the desire to visit the library in the morning without Hermione having to nag him about it.

*

It had been years since he last took any sort of structured classes, but he didn’t remember them being so difficult. How was it that as a teenager he was capable of spending eight hours in lessons back to back, but as an adult, he could barely handle three hours without wanting to rip his hair out or sleep indefinitely?

As a teenager, he supposed, he wasn’t forced to sit through the wizarding equivalent of an HR “work appropriateness” lecture, including the awful “get to know each other” questions nobody but the Ministry lecturer thought were fun.

“I don’t know, Harry. That sounds really fun,” Hermione said when Harry had told the table at large over dinner about his suffering.

“Of course _you’d_ think that,” Ron gave his girlfriend a disgusted look and turned consolingly to Harry—a much more appropriate reaction. “That sounds bloody awful. Having to socialise, ugh. Can you imagine being put together with someone like Malfoy? I reckon he’d be right miserable to whatever poor sod he was paired up with.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably.

“I actually don’t think it would be that bad.” At Ron’s blank look, he shrugged. “He’s changed. Since Hogwarts.”

For a horrible minute, Harry was certain he’d just said the wrong thing and he would be accused of sympathising with the enemy or being insensitive and devaluing the traumas they’d all gone through in the war.

He was just about to get up from the table and retreat when Ron spoke, almost reluctant, but relentingly, “I reckon you’d know best, living with him.”

Hermione was quick to jump on board: “That’s right! I suppose you get to see a lot of different sides to him that we don’t when you’re sleeping together.”

Harry choked on his tongue and nearly coughed up his lungs as he swallowed down the wrong tube.

“What?” he squeaked when he’d managed to recover. How the hell had they known? He hadn’t looked any different in the mirror since his encounter with Malfoy the other day. It wasn’t like there was a flashing sign over his head that read “NOT STRICTLY A VIRGIN ANYMORE”. It didn’t work that way, did it? He hadn’t known for months when Ron and Hermione had given theirs up. “How—when—I—”

Ron was patting him on the back while Hermione peered at him concernedly.

“Well, you _are_ sharing a room,” she stated, though it sounded more like a question with the way her voice went high at the end.

“Oh,” he breathed, infinitely relieved she hadn’t been saying what he thought she’d been saying. “Yes. Yes, we are.”

“You didn’t think Hermione meant you two _sleeping_ sleeping together, did you?” He pulled a face. “I mean, I get your reaction, but can you _imagine? Anyone_ in a relationship with Malfoy? _”_ he shuddered dramatically.

Harry, who didn’t have to imagine quite so much as his friends, stayed quiet and played with what was left of his mushy peas.

It must have been only a moment later that Malfoy walked up to their table. Harry, who had been facing away from the door, didn’t see him coming, and so it was only by the way the table hushed unexpectedly and Ron went bug-eyed across from him that he knew anything was up.

“Potter,” Malfoy drawled. “I need to talk to you.”

Harry glanced between Ron, Hermione and Neville, who all looked back with hesitant confusion.

“Okay,” he rose, and the two of them walked stiffly out of the Great Hall. As they left the table, Hermione and Ron started furiously whispering to each other.

Malfoy led him from the Great Hall all the way up to the library in silence. He sat at one of the long tables and gestured for Harry to take the seat beside him.

“Er… why couldn’t we have talked in our room? Or at the Great Hall?”

“Did you mean it when you said you wanted to talk about the things we want to do?” he asked instead, ignoring Harry’s question entirely.

Peevishly, Harry nodded.

“Good. I want to talk about the things we want to do to each other and what we don’t.”

“I’m not saying I don’t want to do that, um, right now, but remind me again why we couldn’t talk about this in our room?”

“It’s 7:00,” Malfoy said with meaning.

Harry blinked uncomprehendingly.

Malfoy heaved a great sigh and elaborated: “7:00 is when our neighbours like to demonstrate their inability to produce an adequate silencing charm.”

“Oh!” Harry exclaimed, flushing a brilliant shade of red as he realised what Malfoy meant. “Good idea. Nobody ever comes to the library.”

Malfoy’s raised brow made him feel slightly stupid, so he hurriedly changed the topic.

“So, you wanted to talk.”

At that, Malfoy seemed to freeze. Harry watched him go through the motion of taking in a deep breath and steeling himself against whatever he was planning on saying next.

“I don’t think I’m ready for penetrative sex.”

Malfoy’s words hung in the air. It sounded so strange, hearing it from his mouth, in his aristocratic tones. It was so matter of fact—so straightforward—that for a second Harry thought he’d misheard. When he realised he hadn’t, a shiver ran through him and he reached the sudden and unexpected understanding that he liked it, possibly more than he would have if Malfoy had said it in a way that was dirty or loaded with meaning. There was just something about the way Malfoy looked when he said it—a little bit flushed and unsure, but committed to being open and honest despite his reservations. It made Harry feel close to him, in a weird sort of way.

“Giving or receiving?” Harry asked cautiously.

“Both. I liked what we did the other night, and wouldn’t be averse to doing that again and maybe even going further, but I want to be prepared before we go all the way.”

“Wow,” Harry said, quietly, right before he started to laugh.

“What? Why is that funny, Potter?” Malfoy sneered, and Harry knew he had approximately two seconds before Malfoy got up and stormed away and that was the end of their exploration of sex together.

“Nothing,” he chuckled. “Absolutely nothing. Only how similar we really are when it comes down to it. You want to be prepared. Like _this_ prepared?”

From his satchel, Harry pulled a stack of books that had been transfigured to look like ordinary NEWT-level Transfiguration books. He changed them back with a flick of his wand and pushed them toward Malfoy, who looked increasingly incredulous and curious.

“ _The Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex, The Anatomy of Male Pleasure, Erogenous Zones: What Gets Your Partner Hot and How to Keep the Fire Going, So You Want to Have Sex?”_ he listed off. “Potter, what is this?”

Harry rolled his eyes at Malfoy’s dramatics.

“I figured it was pretty obvious by the titles. I did some research. I wanted to be prepared, too.”

Malfoy hummed, leafing through _The Anatomy of Male Pleasure_ distractedly and eyeballing some of the pictures. He looked up suddenly, and said, shrewdly, “You didn’t go to Granger for these, did you?”

“Merlin, no!” he nearly shouted, paling at the thought. He’d probably have had a fit if he had. Hermione might’ve had an apoplexy. Ron would surely have died if he found out. The thought of it had him squirming uncomfortably in his chair. “No offense, and I’m not ashamed, but I don’t really want to think about Ron or Hermione knowing about _this._ ”

Thankfully, instead of upset, Malfoy appeared relieved.

“Besides,” he muttered, sliding his chair closer to get a better look at the page Malfoy had stopped to look at in greater depth. “I _can_ do my own research, you know.”

Malfoy shot him a patronising glance out of the corner of his eye, but didn’t comment.

It was some time later, when they’d got around to _The Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex,_ which had _The Wizard’s Edition_ printed on it in tiny letters under the author’s name, that Malfoy spoke again.

“I don’t think I want to do anything hardcore.”

They were currently looking at a moving photo of a man suspended on a rack by his wrists and ankles whose testicles were being teased by a cat o’ nine tails. The man in the picture had red lashes all along his thighs, arse and back. The man seemed to be enjoying it, but Harry agreed. That wasn’t for him, at least not right away. Maybe once they’d eased into it, and only if Malfoy agreed to give it a go.

“For me, either,” he said placidly and flipped the page to a diagram of a toy that looked like a fancy letter T, but upside down. One end was fashioned like a fancy teacup handle.

 _The prostate stimulator_ was printed underneath the illustration.

“I don’t think I really want to try toys just yet,” he said, leafing through the next several pages of toys that looked more and more like torture devices in all their wicked styles and colours. Something that was called _The Dragon_ had him shuddering and clenching his arse. “I can use them on you if you want, but I don’t think I want any of these things in me.”

“Hmm, we’ll see,” Malfoy said simply. He was heavy-lidded and was cupping one of his cheeks in his hands.

“We can, if you want,” he offered. “If you change your mind, I’ll stop and we don’t have to do it anymore. We don’t have to do anything we don’t want to.”

“Only what we want,” Malfoy agreed readily, and Harry felt the beginnings of a smile creep onto his face.

They spent the rest of the evening going over the books and picking out bits that seemed interesting or that they might like. It was hard not to get excited at the thought of experiencing them very soon, and it was difficult to not kiss Malfoy right then and there and start something. That wasn’t the point, though, and he felt that if he had tried, Malfoy wouldn’t have stood for it. Probably. It was hard to tell with Malfoy. He’d been more than eager last time.

When the sky had turned dark and his head felt more full of exciting new things from the books than anything he’d learned since starting his summer courses, he reluctantly dragged Malfoy out of the library and to their room—though not before he had re-transfigured the books, of course.

*

It was a week before they had the chance to properly explore what they’d researched in the library. Between classes, practicals and Harry’s friends, by the time night had rolled around, they were exhausted or irritable or exhausted _and_ irritable, and it just hadn’t worked out.

Then, thankfully, the weekend came, and after breakfast, when they were sure most of the castle had vacated on a trip to Hogsmeade (notably Ron, Neville and Hermione, who were most likely to interrupt them), they holed themselves up in their room with the strongest silencing and locking spells in their combined arsenal.

Malfoy was sitting on his bed, watching Harry as he fussed at his desk.

“You’re sure you have the lubricant?” His nerves were getting the better of him. He’d read and reread the chapter in _The Anatomy of Male Pleasure_ so many times, he’d all but memorised the text by that point.

Behind him, Malfoy made an irritated sound.

“Yes, Potter, I have the lubricant. I only made it myself and have told you this half a dozen times.”

Harry clenched and unclenched his hands nervously, feeling like he was about to take a test he hadn’t studied for and was very much about to fail. He’d never been good at tests.

“Come on, for Merlin’s sake. Just—” there was rustling from the bed, and then Malfoy was beside him, gripping his shoulder much more gently than he would have expected from how annoyed he’d just managed to sound. “It’ll be fine. What was it you said the other day? This’ll be a good opportunity for us to learn about ourselves and each other. To learn how to, what? _Enhance each other’s pleasure?_ ”

Against all odds, Malfoy’s teasing was actually helping to make him feel more relaxed instead of riled up like it usually did. He was really coming to enjoy the new and improving Malfoy, the sarcastic bastard that he was.

“Okay,” he exhaled deeply, steadying his nerves and allowing Malfoy to pull him away from the desk and toward the bed. Just as he’d said, there were three vials full of lube lying on the comforter. They glinted under the dimmed lights as Harry approached, and he swallowed.

They were going to do this. He was really, really going to do this. For a split second, the hilarity of the fact that it was Malfoy comforting _him_ struck him. _Him!_ It should have been the other way around, he would have thought, but Malfoy seemed as calm as a cucumber. Except no, he didn’t, when Harry looked closely. There was a tightness to his eyes and mouth that betrayed a hint of nervousness. His hand, though, still on Harry’s shoulder, was a relaxed, warm weight where it rested.

“Okay,” he repeated, and turned to face Malfoy more fully. “I guess we just… do this. Right now.”

The corner of Malfoy’s mouth curled up, and he sat back, starting to unbutton his robe.

“Where’s the romance?” he drawled with his usual smugness.

Harry’s response was lost as the garment gaped open with each button, exposing more and more of Malfoy’s pale chest. Finally, it was loose enough that Malfoy was able to, with some wriggling, pull it clean over his head. He threw it to the floor on the other side of the room. Harry would have commented on how unMalfoyish that was, who always seemed the picture of a perfectionist, except Malfoy had foregone pants at all, and was now completely nude.

Harry’s mouth went dry as he took the sight in, want zinging through his body as it headed straight for the pit of his stomach.

The contrast of his pale skin against the green bedspread was tantalising. Harry realised quite abruptly that he wanted to taste that skin: wanted to see if it really was as perfect as it looked, or if he could taste and feel the imperfections that were no doubt there.

Malfoy, who he had noticed previously had no problem with his nudity, relaxed back onto the bed. He was heavily lidded, watching Harry through slits, and as Harry looked on, he flexed and reached down to lazily caress himself.

“Merlin,” Harry whispered, already well on his way to half hard even though they’d barely even begun.

“No. Draco,” Malfoy said, teasing himself languidly. He repeated his name, drawing out the vowels, and Harry couldn’t tell if the exaggeration was because stroking himself felt too good, or because he felt Harry was just that stupid. “Draaaaaacooo.”

Harry was going to have a heart attack, he was sure of it, but what a way to die.

He stepped closer at Malfoy’s beckoning, until he was between those slim thighs, looking down on Malfoy as if he was a prize, watching as he brought himself to full erection.

“I thought the point of this was for you to touch me. So far, it’s all been me.”

As if the spell that had kept him still was broken, Harry _was_ touching him. He knocked Malfoy’s hand away and replaced it with his own, appreciating the weight of the cock in his hand and the sudden sharp inhale Malfoy made at the contact followed by a quiet, breathy moan as he started moving up and down.

He first touched Malfoy’s stomach with his other hand, splaying his fingers wide and just feeling the motion of his breathing and the sporadic twitches as he moved at a quick, unrelenting pace.

“Oh, _god_ ,” Malfoy moaned when he started moving up the plane of his abdomen, and this time it was Harry’s turn to smirk.

“No,” he echoed facetiously. “ _Haaaaaaarry.”_

Malfoy was startled into laughing through his next moan.

Through exploration, he learned Malfoy’s nipples weren’t incredibly erogenous zones, that he was ticklish, and that he had an incredibly sensitive spot at the base of his throat. He’d spent quite a lot of time at that last, massaging and revelling in the sounds Malfoy would give him in reward. Then he thought to use his mouth on it, and the sounds he got in response were entirely different. Bigger. Louder. Better. There were things he could do with his tongue that he couldn’t with just his fingers, and the way Malfoy went breathless when he started nipping at all the places he had discovered on his journey up made him believe the sensation was altogether different.

“If you don’t get on with it,” Malfoy panted, hips jumping spasmodically against Harry’s fist, “this is going to be over before we really even begin.”

Harry pulled back with a grin, pleased that he had managed to push Malfoy so far with so little. It felt good to know that he was responsible for making Malfoy look like this, sound like this. It was empowering.

“There’s your romance,” he said, reaching for one of the vials by Malfoy’s hip. “Get properly on the bed so I don’t have to do this half bent over.”

“‘Romance’, he says,” Malfoy grumbled, but complied all the same, shimmying further onto the bed and making a space for Harry to crawl onto after him.

When they were positioned the way Harry wanted, he pulled the stopper on the vial. It was much less viscous than he had been expecting, and more came out than he had anticipated, coating his hand in the slippery substance. Some of it dripped slickly between his fingers and landed on the bedspread. Throughout it all, Malfoy watched him with a smarmy expression. He canted his hips up invitingly, and Harry took the hint, replacing the stopper on the vial and tossing it to the side as he moved back between Malfoy’s thighs.

“It’s cold,” he warned, and Malfoy grunted, spreading his legs a little to give Harry more room.

His first touch was hesitant. They’d talked about penetration before and agreed that giving it a try before the real thing was probably a good idea. Malfoy had admitted to fingering himself before, and they’d agreed he’d be better of the two of them to be on the receiving end this time, if only because he sort of had an idea of what it was meant to feel like.

The lube was incredibly messy as he smeared it around Malfoy’s entrance. He avoided touching the furl at first, drawing rings around it to try to accustom both Malfoy and himself to the feeling of it.

When Malfoy gave a frustrated little “ _Potter”_ , he figured it was time to stop putting it off, and pressed at the hole gently. Malfoy didn’t tense, so Harry added enough pressure to pop through. Mesmerised, he watched his finger disappear. This was it. He was in Malfoy’s body.

Inside, it was wholly different than he had thought it would be. It didn’t feel silken or velvety like he’d read in his strictly less than scientific research. It was warm and wet and squishy. It almost reminded him of the time he’d stuck his finger into the middle of Dudley’s water wiggly out of curiosity.

“How does it feel?” he asked, unable to tear his eyes away from where his finger had been swallowed up to the second knuckle.

“Weird,” was what Malfoy said. He’d begun to wank himself. Harry realised he’d started going soft, which was strange for him because he couldn’t have been harder.

“Weird good or weird bad?” He finally drew his eyes away from where Malfoy was clenching down on him, little spasms that felt incredibly odd.

“I’d probably be able to tell better if you actually did something other than just sit there,” Malfoy retorted smartly. He must have read something on Harry’s face, though, because he amended a moment later, “Weird good. Keep going.”

Harry did. When he’d buried his finger in as deep as it was going to go, he started pulling it back, fascinated by the drag he could feel inside Malfoy.

“I’m going to try for two,” he warned, pulling his finger out entirely and making sure the two together were slick enough. The press back inside was more of a struggle than the first had been, and he had to keep pausing every time Malfoy twitched. It was entrancing to see and feel his fingers pumping slowly in and out of Malfoy.

“Start stretching,” he was ordered, and obediently, Harry did, pressing against the walls that squeezed in on him tightly.

Once or twice, Malfoy’s breath hitched. Each time, he stopped to make sure he wasn’t in pain. Every time, Malfoy glared at him and told him to keep going until, finally, the noises went back to being recognisably ones of pleasure.

“Feels good,” Malfoy told him. His head was to the side, the long column of his neck exposed. He’d stopped stroking his prick vigorously in favour of shorter, more languorous pulls that were in time with Harry’s fingers moving in and out.

Harry was sure he’d come any moment with how hard he was. There was bound to be a puddle in his pants from how much he’d already leaked. It was crazy how arousing Malfoy was when he wasn’t even doing anything.

Now that Malfoy was relaxed and mostly used to the feeling, Harry started trying different angles, feeling his way around for what he’d read about.

No matter what angle or position he tried, though, he didn’t seem to be finding it. Malfoy was no help at all, too busy enjoying the sensations.

With a frustrated growl, Harry summoned _The Anatomy of Male Pleasure_ from the desk. It flew over obediently and he leafed through the pages with his free hand until he found the one he wanted.

 _“Relax, breathe deeply”_ the book said helpfully. Harry made the effort to inhale slowly through his nose and read on: _“Direct the fingers toward the belly button. The prostate should be walnut sized and firm to the touch at the front wall of the rectum. Massage gently.”_

He angled his fingers as directed, but it still took several seconds of searching until he finally found what might have been Malfoy’s prostate. When he touched it, Malfoy let out a startled sound, but it was only after he had been pressing against it for several seconds that he started to really respond.

“Oh,” he half moaned. “Oh, is that it?”

His breathing had picked up and as Harry watched, he started going a patchy sort of red all down his neck and chest.

“ _Ah,”_ he grunted, pulling more fervently at his cock as his eyes clenched.

Harry kept pressing at the spot he’d found, eyes darting between Malfoy’s face, cock and arse. He couldn’t decide which part he liked best, and it was all he could do to take it all in at the same time.

Malfoy started making regular little sounds, thrashing his head from time to time, but it wasn’t enough. Harry had read in one of the other books about the perineum, and how pressing against it was a way of hitting the prostate from the outside. He put that knowledge to good use now, using his free hand to cup Malfoy’s balls and feel around with his thumb until Malfoy was rocking enthusiastically back against him and swearing.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he growled and came, spurting white stripes up his chest and clenching tightly down on Harry’s fingers.

Afterwards, he lay panting, staring blankly at the canopy of the bed while Harry removed his fingers, stripped out of his pants in record time and pulled at his cock until he was coming, too.

“Wow,” Harry said what felt like an eternity later, stretched out beside Malfoy. “So that’s the prostate.”

Malfoy laughed tiredly and rolled over, laying against Harry’s arm. “Yeah. That’s the prostate.”

Harry’s stomach gave a pleasant little flip that had nothing to do with how good his lower half felt, and everything to do with the feel of Malfoy’s cheek pressed against his bicep. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to regain control, and before he had managed to open them again he felt a light touch circling his hip, questioning.

His eyes snapped open and he found Malfoy watching him, still lying so close that his breath was ghosting across Harry’s side.

“You’re still wearing a shirt,” Malfoy pointed out, his fingers trailing up to tug at the buttons of Harry’s pale blue shirt.

He felt faintly self-conscious, as he remembered choosing his clothing carefully this morning, trying to pick something that was perhaps a little tighter, a little more fitted than usual. He hadn’t given much thought as to why, but he was starting to get a few ideas now.

Suddenly, Malfoy sat up and straddled him, his fingers tracing a line up to Harry’s neck. “I want to try something,” he said, slightly unsure. “It’s a little strange.”

“I’m not sure I’m quite ready yet, if you want to go again,” Harry said hesitantly, but Malfoy was already shaking his head.

“I just want to see if I—” He stopped abruptly, then leaned his head down so that his lips were pressed gently against Harry’s neck.

Carefully, softly, he began to place small kisses along his jaw, down his collarbone. Harry felt strangely tense—not in the sense that he wasn’t enjoying it, but simply because there was something different about Malfoy’s movements, something that made him want to melt back down into the covers and bring Malfoy with him.

Malfoy dropped his head lower until he was mouthing at Harry’s top button. Then, with a faint pop, he pulled it open with his teeth.

“Holy—” Harry breathed, his heart racing so loud he barely heard Malfoy’s quiet laugh.

He moved lower, tasting Harry’s skin and pulling gently at each new centimeter of fabric, the buttons popping away one by one beneath his mouth. He stopped halfway, drifting back up to drag his lips across Harry’s nipple, making him squirm and breathe louder still, before returning to his task.

When he’d reached the last button, he pulled it loose and slid his hands beneath Harry’s shirt, pushing the sides apart and sitting back with a triumphant grin.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” he admitted in a rush.

Harry stared in wonder and met his pleased smile. His hair was tousled, so unlike his usual perfect composure, but there was something else, something more. The expression on his face—giddy, so free of its usual caution and filled instead with a simple sort of wonder—made his heart ache, and for the first time since they had begun this… _thing_ … he felt the first twinges of fear.

But he couldn’t bring it in himself to regret it, and with a rush of affection, he pulled Malfoy down into a kiss.

“Smartarse,” he muttered, when they’d pulled apart.

Malfoy laughed and climbed off him, and they managed to make it into the showers minutes before the others returned, calling down the corridor looking for them.

*

Harry stared at Professor Staltwort in horror. He had thought they were done with all of the ridiculous introductions and inane ice breakers. Apparently not. Apparently, moving onto the fieldwork part of the course and partnering up with someone meant a whole new kind of hell.

“Professor, do we have to partner with someone in our area?” Hermione asked worriedly.

She was the only person specialising in medicinal herbs, and Harry could feel her panicking that she would somehow miss out on the value of cross-departmental knowledge.

“That would be somewhat limiting,” Professor Staltwort said with a genial smile. “Select your partners, please. I understand we have an odd number of students, but no more than three to a group!”

“Excellent,” Ron said, grabbing Harry’s wrist and dragging him a little closer to him and Hermione. “You can join us. Otherwise Hermione’s going to spend the whole time going on about whether or not we can submit a dual essay for extra credit.”

“Um,” Harry said slowly, looking over to where Malfoy was standing on his own. “I don’t know.”

Ron turned to see what had caught his attention. “Oh, come off it. I know you feel guilty and you’re trying to become mates or some bloody rot, but you don’t have to be with him all the time.”

Harry frowned, turning back to look at him. “I’m not doing this out of guilt.”

“What is it, then? Sure, he’s not that bad to be around anymore, but, I mean, he’s still Malfoy, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he is.” Harry snapped.

Then, he pulled away, leaving Ron to dissect that cryptic remark on his own and making his way over to Malfoy.

“Partners?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

“Sure,” Malfoy drawled, plucking the piece of parchment with their instructions out of the air as it floated toward them. “Did you know this is going to take all morning? What rubbish. I spent six years of school with you—I don’t need to know your favourite bloody colour just so we can go hunting for unicorn hair together.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Harry said, pretending to consider it. “What if you see some nice flowers I might like, and you don’t know which one to pick?”

Malfoy gave a surprised laugh, glancing at him quickly before looking back at the parchment. “I suppose we’d better get on with it.”

Professor Staltwort interrupted them, now that everyone had their parchments and a partner or two. “Find somewhere in the sun! It’s a lovely day, we should enjoy it. First ones back who can recite all their partner’s answers without looking get a prize!”

“Seems a little biased,” Malfoy said, looking over at Ron and Hermione with narrowed eyes. “They could probably do that without the quiz.”

“Yeah,” Harry said slowly, watching as Ron crossed his arms over his chest, glaring mutinously at Hermione who had walked off in exasperation. “I don’t know about that, actually.”

“Well, shall we?”

He realised Malfoy was talking to him, and looked over to see he was gesturing to a sunny spot by the fountain. 

“Right,” he said, snatching the parchment off Malfoy and sitting down. “Welcome to Orienteer’s Orienteering,” he read aloud. “A well-rounded team knows itself in and out—it’s time to get to know your partner. Have a go at guessing your partner’s answers yourself, and then compare results. The answers might surprise you.” Harry looked up at Malfoy with an expression of dread. “Surely we can just skip this part.”

The parchment gave a little shimmy and split in two, one half fluttering into Malfoy’s hands just as a pair of quills and a pot of ink floated over from the Professor.

“I think they’ve thought of that,” Malfoy said mildly. “All right, Potter. Let’s get this out of the way.” He studied the parchment and began to jot down his answers.

Harry turned back to his own list, faintly alarmed at how quickly Malfoy was answering the questions.

_If your partner could have an endless supply of any one food, what would they choose?_

_If they could choose their animagus form, what would they choose, and why?_

_What is their biggest pet peeve?_

_Are they a morning person or a night person?_

“These are bloody stupid,” Harry said, and then realised he’d spoken aloud.

“And I’m beating you,” Malfoy pointed out.

Harry quickly began scribbling down answers, barely thinking about it.

“Fine,” he said, reaching the end. “Let’s go through them one by one, yeah?”

Malfoy lifted one elegant shoulder in a shrug and waited.

“What’d you pick for ‘food’?”

“Given the amount of times you’ve stuffed your face full of treacle tart?” Malfoy drawled. “Hardly a difficult question.”

Harry blinked in surprise. “Right. Well, I put chocolate eclairs, since your mum sends you those all the time. Was I right?”

Malfoy stared at him for a moment, before hurrying to respond. “Beginner’s luck,” he muttered. “Next one. Animagus.” Before Harry could say anything, he rolled his eyes and interrupted. “If you put down ferret, I will murder you in your sleep.”

Harry snorted. “I thought about it, but no. I guess you might like to be a fox, actually. What’d you put?”

Malfoy’s eyebrows drew together. “How did you know that?” He shook his head. “Clearly, you spent far too much time in your youth stalking me, Potter. It’s a little sad.” He smirked suddenly. “Maybe that’s why I wrote down ‘dog’ for you—subconsciously I just knew you spent too much time sniffing around.”

“Actually, I would like to be a dog animagus. Sirius was a dog.”

The grin fell away from Malfoy’s face and he turned back to the parchment. “Pet peeve?”

“You,” they both said in unison.

They grinned immediately before clearing their throats and looking away again.

“Morning or night?” Harry asked, glancing over to see what Malfoy had written.

“Why not both?” Malfoy said, an entirely different smirk on his face this time.

Harry’s stomach suddenly felt full of butterflies, and despite the fact that they were surrounded by people, he found himself smirking back and wishing, just for a moment, that he could kiss Malfoy right then and there.

He turned away and they went through the rest of the questions quickly, finding—somewhat alarmingly—that they had guessed every one correctly. The parchment wiped itself clean just as they were about to stand up and hand it in—well before the other groups had finished—and several new questions appeared.

“What?” Harry snapped, leaning back again. “More?”

“How thoughtful of them,” Malfoy said, looking like he very much wanted to set the parchment on fire. “Alright then, let’s hurry up. There aren’t many.”

“Say one nice thing about your partner—give them a compliment,” Harry read out. “Is this kindergarten?”

Malfoy sniffed. “Hardly. At least preschoolers have the ability to stop activities when they want… more or less.” He sighed, then lowered his voice. “Fine. Potter, you give an excellent hand job,” he drawled, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Your turn.”

Harry frowned. He knew Malfoy was only being dismissive because it was a stupid exercise, and he was confident from Malfoy’s responses that he was more than happy to have Harry in his bed, but something about the flippant way that Malfoy had used that knowledge, their experiences, to dismiss the question bothered him.

“No,” he said. “Give me a real one.”

“What, right here?” Malfoy pretended to be shocked. “I must say, Potter, I never took you as—”

“Stop it,” Harry hissed. “You know what I mean.”

“I’m not sure I do.” Malfoy’s expression had turned suddenly mean, and Harry felt like he’d been thrown straight back to sixth year.

Everything in him willed him to stand up and walk away, to throw something cutting and cruel at Malfoy and leave. Old habits die hard, and Harry was more shocked than he would have thought to see that look on Malfoy’s face once more, when he’d thought it was gone for good.

Then, he stopped and thought about it, about what he was seeing and what he knew about Malfoy now.

“You’re doing this deliberately,” he said, keeping his voice slow and careful. “I don’t know why, but you are. And while we’re at it, how exactly were you going to finish that sentence before? You never took me as a what? Because if you’re going to start trying to use—” he trailed off and waved his hand vaguely in the air, “—this against me, what we have, what we’re doing, then… Well, why are we even doing this in the first place?”

Malfoy stared at him, his pointy face suddenly sharp and cruel. He opened his mouth to say something, and then Harry watched as that same restraint and caution Malfoy had been using these last few weeks kicked in and he pulled himself back. But he didn’t apologise.

After a moment of silence, Malfoy stood up and walked back to the rest of the group. They’d missed their chance at being the first now, and the groups were already peeling off to go search for the various components they needed to complete their summer courses.

Harry kept waiting for Malfoy to say something, but he should have known better. He knew just how stubborn the man could be, and, true to form, Malfoy remained silent as they headed off in search of the path of the unicorn herd.

“Malfoy,” he said after they were well down the path into the Forest. “Are you going to stop sulking?”

“Children sulk,” Malfoy answered, before pointing out a trail and following it. “I simply have nothing to say to you.”

After a while, Harry gave up and they fell into silence before it was time to return, unfortunately empty-handed.

Harry thought that Malfoy would sit with him at dinner, and maybe he could try to bridge whatever bizarre gap had opened between them by bringing him into the conversation with everyone else, making it less about the two of them and more about Malfoy being a part of the group. Because maybe that was the problem? They’d just been spending too much time together, and Malfoy was getting snippy that he was forced to act like there was something more than their casual fooling around going on, like they were friends.

But Malfoy didn’t even sit with him, choosing instead to sit halfway down the table with two students who had gone to Durmstrang and were studying for the London Aurors with Ron and Seamus.

“Everything alright, Harry?” Ron asked, looking back and forth between him and Malfoy.

Harry wondered if there was a great big sign painted on his forehead. “Yeah,” he said, then filled his mouth with three forkfuls of food so he didn’t have to answer anymore questions.

“It’s just, if everything’s not alright,” Ron soldiered on, and Harry started to feel real panic about the existence of that sign. “We can talk about it.” He lowered his voice. “We don’t even have to tell Hermione—I know how she can get. I won’t give you advice. You can just… you can tell me whatever it is, and then I’ll keep my mouth shut and pretend I didn’t hear anything. You know. If you want.”

Harry nodded slowly, incapable of anything else because his mouth was still full of mashed potato. He forced himself to chew and swallow.

“Thanks,” he said, unable to keep himself from flicking a glance down the table to Malfoy, who wasn’t even looking his way. “I’ll… I’ll see how I go.”

He watched Malfoy for the rest of dinner, not even bothering to hide it anymore. He had no idea what it could be that was bothering him, or why he had acted like he did, suddenly so cold. All he knew was that he felt like something had been taken away from him. He didn’t even care about the sex, it had nothing to do with that, but that left the question: if it wasn't the sex he was missing, what was it?

The second he could break away from his friends, claiming tiredness and a need for an early night, he did. Malfoy had already left, and for a moment Harry was scared that he wouldn’t find him in their room, that he’d have disappeared somewhere in the castle. But when he opened the door, he was sitting there on the bed, leaning against the wall and frowning down at his hands.

Harry shut the door and crossed over to his own bed, sitting down so he was facing Malfoy. Finally, Malfoy looked up.

“What was all that about?” Harry asked. “I’m trying to understand what happened, but I can’t make any sense of it. Do you want space?”

Malfoy’s eyes were carefully free of any emotion. “Do you?”

“Me?” Harry spluttered. “No. Why the hell would I want space? You’re the one who suddenly turned ice cold just because I asked you to give me a real compliment. Was it really that hard to tell me something nice? Surely after everything we’ve been doing, you could pick one thing that you like about me.”

Malfoy gave a bitter laugh. “Potter, I’m not sure you want to have this conversation.”

“No, I really think I do.”

“You won’t like where it’s going.”

“Fucking try me.”

Malfoy pushed away from the wall and stood up, his face flashing with anger. “Fine. Ask me again.”

“What?” Harry stood up too, his brows drawing down in confusion. “Ask you what?”

“The question,” Malfoy said slowly, pulling the piece of parchment out of his pocket and shoving it at Harry. “Ask. Me. Again.”

Harry took it, his eyes never straying from Malfoy’s face. Then, he slowly looked down and read the question. “Say one nice thing about your partner—give them a compliment. It’s not really a question,” he added, suddenly awkward. “More of a directive. Look—”

“You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.”

His head snapped up in shock, and when his eyes met Malfoy’s he forgot how to speak. The anger had dropped away from Malfoy’s face, and what was left was a calm, resigned expression that Harry didn’t recognise.

“The first time I saw you fly in Quidditch, it was like watching a hawk,” Malfoy went on, his expression never changing. “You fly like you were born to.”

Harry laughed nervously. “You only need to give one. What are you—”

“Your hair might look like it’s been plucked for broom bristles, but the just-shagged look suits you. It suits you so well, I just want to shove you up against a wall and take you apart whenever I see you.”

Harry’s breath caught. “Malfoy, what are saying?”

His mouth twisted into a grimace, and he took a step away from Harry, sitting back down on the bed. Harry felt like reaching out and pulling him back, but he didn’t.

“The first time I saw you after the war, I fell in love with you.”

Malfoy’s words fell into the silence like stones. Harry was certain the sound of his heartbeat could be heard all the way out in the corridor.

“You what?” he whispered.

“You heard.” Malfoy wasn’t looking at him now; he was back to studying his hands, rubbing his palms slowly back and forth over each other.

The moment stretched between them, and Harry didn’t know what to say.

“Why did you get so mad?” he finally asked, somewhat stupidly.

Malfoy looked up at him like he was a total idiot. “We said ‘no strings’, Potter,” he said incredulously. “This is… this is a _rope_.”

He trailed off into mutterings; Harry thought he caught the word ‘noose’.

Suddenly, everything clicked into place. He sat back down on his bed, clearing his throat and looking awkwardly down at the parchment still in his hand. He didn’t know how to fix it, so he said the only thing he could think of.

“Your face looks like one of those beautiful paintings… you know… like those old artists did of, of the…” he trailed off, an expression of horror forming on his face as he realised exactly the word he was looking for.

Malfoy looked up, his face a mask of shock. “The _gods_?” he asked, incredulous.

“Yeah,” Harry admitted lamely. “Them.” He shook his head and soldiered on. “You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, and I love watching the way you just lose yourself in what you’re reading, like you’ve suddenly found hidden treasure.”

Malfoy gaped at him, but Harry rushed on before he could interrupt.

“I know that it’s because you’re trying really hard to show me now, but I never noticed how funny you are when you want to be, and how kind you are no matter how much you try to hide it. Kind to me, anyway, which was a surprise. And,” he took a deep breath, forcing himself to look Malfoy in the eye, “and I’ve been falling in love with you all summer.”

This time, the silence seemed full of something, expectant and waiting. Harry wasn’t sure who moved first, but after a moment they had both slowly risen until they were standing in front of each other, close enough to feel each other’s breath on their skin.

“I thought you’d want to stop fooling around,” Malfoy said, a little breathless.

“No,” Harry shook his head. “I was terrified that’s what you wanted.”

Malfoy reached his hand forward, just a little, and took hold of Harry’s fingers. They both looked down, watching where their hands met, pale white against bronze skin.

“Did you want to sleep in my bed tonight?” Malfoy asked quietly.

Harry looked up, trying to read the expression on Malfoy’s face. “Would it be alright if we only did that? Slept, I mean?”

Malfoy leaned forward to rest his forehead against Harry’s, and Harry could feel Malfoy’s smile against his cheek. “Of course,” he said.

Harry wasn’t sure what it said about certain social constructs that after all their experimenting, all their research and careful dismantling of their virginity, the most open and vulnerable he’d felt so far was when he fell asleep that night in Malfoy’s arms.

*

“I want to come out to my friends. Our friends,” Harry said apropos nothing as they were cuddling in bed one evening.

They’d begun exploring their own and each others’ bodies more liberally since having decided to make a real, honest go of a relationship together. The only real difference now, though, was that instead of getting up and sticking to their own sides of the room immediately after, they’d discovered that staying on the same bed was actually quite an alright experience.

Malfoy, whose head was pillowed on his chest, breathed out a sigh that Harry felt down his torso.

“Good for you,” he said placidly, fingers drawing lazy circles on his hip where they rested. “Takes a lot of courage to come out of the closet.”

Harry rapped the top of Malfoy’s head.

“Not like _that_ ,” he groaned. “Why do you always have to be such an arse? I meant about us. I want to tell them about us.”

Malfoy shifted so that he was no longer laying half on Harry, but propped up on his elbow.

“Why?”

Harry had prepared for the question.

“Lots of reasons. I don’t really want to have to sneak around to meet you. It would also stop Ron and Neville from just barging in whenever they want. They might actually learn to knock. If we’re doing this, I don’t want to have to hide it. I’m not ashamed of what I am or this. If we’re going to keep seeing each other after this is over—”

“You want this to be more than a summer thing?” Malfoy asked.

He sounded hesitant, but he looked surprised. Harry’s heart clenched painfully.

“Yes,” he said firmly. “I do. I mean, if you do, too.”

The look Malfoy gave him spoke volumes, but when he responded, it was timidly, like he was admitting something private: “I think it would be easy to convince myself it hadn’t really happened if it was just for the summer.”

Harry supposed that was probably a pretty good estimate—after all, now that Malfoy’d said it, he felt that way, too.

They’d been stuck on each other for so long, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to give up this side of Malfoy after so short a time. It was reassuring to know he felt the same way. The last of the anxiety he’d been holding over officially starting something with him faded away with Malfoy’s admission.

“Good. Which is why I want to tell our friends. My friends, at least. It’ll just make it much easier and I don’t want to have to sneak around and hide you.”

“Left your sneaking around habits back in school, did you?”

Harry snorted. He should have known Malfoy would bring it up. “More or less. So you’ll meet them?”

“Yes. Fine. I’ll meet them, if it’s important to you.” He laid back down, putting his head back on Harry’s shoulder. Harry squirmed until he had an arm around him.

“Tomorrow?” he asked anxiously.

“Tomorrow,” Malfoy agreed. “Now, shut up. Every time you open your mouth, you ruin the mood.”

There was no heat to his insult, though, and even if there had been, Harry was riding too high on excitement and nervousness to really have cared. Instead, he squeezed Malfoy despite his grumpy protest, and let him to his silence.

The next day dawned with a complete reversal of Harry’s mood, however.

Instead of feeling less stressed, which he knew would be the outcome of actually telling them and having it in the open, he felt keyed up and anxious to begin. The fact that he had no idea how they would react was scaring him immensely.

“Pull yourself together, Potter,” Malfoy said crossly. He was leading Harry down the corridor to the library where he’d asked Ron and Hermione to meet them.

Before he was ready for it to, the hallway ended and they were walking through the gilded library.

Hermione and Ron had arrived before them and were occupying one of the couches in the corner off to the side. It was situated in front of a fireplace, which was flickering with a small fire to keep the room warm and modestly dry.

“Hey, Harry,” they chorused, seeing him. Ron did a doubletake. “And Malfoy?”

They sat on the other end of the couch, Malfoy by the armrest so Harry was closer to Ron and Hermione.

“I wanted to talk to the both of you.”

They blinked at each other in the wake of his statement. When it became clear that he wasn’t going to say anything more, Ron made a face.

“Well, yeah, mate,” he said confusedly. “You did ask us here to talk about something.”

Unsubtly, Hermione elbowed him in the side and cleared her throat.

“Did whatever it was have to do with Malfoy?” she asked kindly, and Harry sent her a grateful smile.

“Erm, yes. I don’t really know how to say it, so it’s probably best if I just come out with it all at once.” He took a deep breath then, steeling himself for their reactions. Discreetly, he felt Malfoy’s hand press against his back, a sign of encouragement. “We’re together.”

Hermione blinked rapidly, taking it in, while Ron’s gaze darted between the two of them repeatedly.

“What,” he said, “as in you’re _together_? You know I was only joking the other day when I mentioned you together. This is a bit far to take for a joke, mate.”

“Ron,” said Hermione quietly, “I don’t think this is a joke.”

“Er… it’s not,” he confirmed. “We’re together.”

“But… _how?”_ Ron asked in an astounded sort of voice.

Harry shrugged helplessly.

“I don’t really know. It just kind of happened.”

“This is… wow,” said Hermione, sitting back so she was leaning against the armrest and away from them. “I suppose it’s not _totally_ out of the blue. You’ve always had very _strong_ feelings for each other.”

“Yeah,” Ron snorted, “You mean like wanting to get into a fight all the time.” He turned to them, then. “You can’t tell me you and Malfoy don’t argue anymore.”

Harry looked over at Malfoy, who appeared to not be paying attention.

“Oh, no,” he said wryly, “we still fight. You wouldn’t believe the row we got into the other day, actually. But it’s—it’s good.”

Ron made a face as if to say, “but it’s _Malfoy”_ , as if the two were mutually exclusive. Harry quirked his lip; he knew the feeling. It didn’t make sense to him, either, but it also did in a weird, abstract, squinty kind of way.

“And this thing between you and Malfoy… it’s serious?” Hermione asked hesitantly, like they were an arithmancy question that wasn’t making any sense, but somehow, impossibly, someone had written an answer that she couldn’t work out. It was quite flattering to be on the end of that look, actually.

“Yes, I think so. We mean for it to be.”

“Oi,” interjected Ron rudely. “What about you? You’ve been quiet this whole time. What’s in it for you, Malfoy?” He was already going red in preparation for whatever he expected to hear.

Harry exhaled sharply, annoyed with the way Ron was just expecting Malfoy to have an ulterior motive, and the implicit assumption that Harry would have gone along with it like they hadn’t spent most of their lives bickering and being nasty to one another. If anyone was qualified to understand how vile Malfoy had been in the past, it was Harry.

“I told you: Draco’s not like that anymore. He’s changing. Trying to be different.” The name had just slipped out, unconsciously. He hadn’t planned to say it, but it didn’t feel wrong, either. Weird, maybe, but not wrong.

“He makes me happy,” Malfoy said simply, as if Ron hadn’t just insulted him and Harry hadn’t just defended his honour and also used his first name in perhaps the first time in his life.

Harry was deaf to anything anyone might have said after that. It was one thing to know that Malfoy was in it and wanted to keep it going, but it was entirely another to know that he was happy, and that Harry specifically was making him happy.

He almost didn’t care about what Ron and Hermione had to say after that, staring slack-jawed at Malfoy. The hand at his back pressed in in what might have been a comforting squeeze. Harry’s jaw closed with a clack, and he was taken over by a savage grin.

“You don’t mind that I just called you Draco, do you?” he asked quietly. It was meant to be just between them, but he was very aware of Ron and Hermione a metre away, who were probably able to hear everything they said.

Malfoy smiled slightly, very nearly imperceptibly. “No,” he said, then, deliberately, “Harry.”

He turned back to his friends, still grinning. Hermione looked thoughtful while Ron goggled between the two of them unattractively.

“Blimy. Do you know what? I think he _has_ changed.” Ron said to Hermione in such genuine disbelief that Harry had to laugh.

“I told you,” he told them.

“This is all very,” Hermione groped for a word. She settled on “big. Harry, you’re sure this is what’s going to make you happy?”

Harry looked to Draco again, smiled at him, and turned back to her.

“Pretty sure.”

“Well. Okay, then. As long as you’re happy. All we want is you to be happy, mate,” Ron said, and then, to himself, like he still couldn’t believe it, despite them sitting right there, on the other end of the sofa: “ _Malfoy._ ”

Hermione looked like she was bursting to ask a million questions, but for once, she seemed to contain herself.

“It’s okay. You can ask.”

For an uncharacteristically long moment, she didn’t say anything, and then she smiled a tentative smile.

“I think Ron expressed everything I would have said.”

“I’m surprised,” he said carefully, not wanting to start up an argument when everything seemed to be going so well. “I thought you’d, I don’t know, have questions or you’d be against it or something.”

“Questions?” Ron asked, freckled nose wrinkling. “What kind of questions?”

Harry shrugged awkwardly. “Well, when you two started dating, Ernie asked all that stuff about…” he coughed suddenly, realising exactly where he was going with this and suddenly very much not wanting to ask it.

“Oh!” Hermione said, her eyes widening. “When he wouldn’t stop winking and asking if we were using protection, you mean?”

Ron gagged. “Merlin, and he kept asking what you were like, Hermione. Do you remember that? I nearly decked him.”

Hermione rolled her eyes—a gesture Harry very rarely saw her make. “Yes. Yes, I remember. And when he found out about Dean and Seamus he was _incessant_ with his awful questions about what they did in bed. Like it was any of his business.” She turned back to Harry. “Of course we’re not going to ask anything like that. Unless you want to talk about it, of course.”

He felt Draco relax behind him, and without meaning to, he gave a relieved sigh. “No, not at all.”

Ron shrugged and gave Harry a smile. “Well, that’s that, then.”

Harry smiled back.

“So,” Hermione cleared her throat when the silence had stretched on to become inappropriately long and it became apparent that none of them were going to say anything and save them all. “Nice weather we’re having.”

Ron’s laugh was too loud in the library. It filled the echoey room unnaturally.

“Tell that to Hagrid. He’s in tears over his bubotubers. Didn’t you hear? The sudden turn shocked them. They’ve gone premature. You know what he’s like.”

“That’s… unfortunate,” Draco said, finally taking a more active role in the conversation now that it had shifted away from them.

Harry knew they were all thinking back to their adventures with parenting flobberworms in third year.

He was content to let the three of them carry on the conversation without him, no matter how stilted it was as they all got to know each other outside a bottle of Firewhiskey. It was reassuring to see that they—all three of them—were making an effort.

*

Later that day, when they were out in the forest checking once more for the unicorn hairs that they needed for their final assignment, it dawned on Harry that everything had shifted. It had started with small little touches when no one was looking—a hand on the shoulder, fingers running through hair—but soon enough he found himself not caring who saw. And the change that came over Draco as a result was breathtaking.

The first time Harry took his hand while they were walking out of the Great Hall, where anyone could see them, Draco’s whole body stiffened in shock. But then, slowly, he forced himself to relax, and when he turned to smile at Harry, it felt like the room had suddenly grown both lighter and warmer. After that, every time Harry looked at him, there was a secret smile on his face. Harry was fairly sure it looked exactly like his own.

“Merlin, Harry,” Draco whispered, grabbing his arm and pointing to a bush off the side of the path. “I think we’ve found them. I thought it would take days!”

“I think you’re right,” Harry murmured, his voice hushed. He leaned closer to the tiny tuft of hair that was caught on the branches. “This is more than enough for what we need.”

Draco plucked a vial out of his pocket and leaned forward to examine the hairs. “I need your wand.”

“Why?” Harry asked, frowning, but pulled his wand out and handed it over all the same.

“Because,” Draco said drily, looking up at him like he was explaining something very simple to a young child. “My wand’s core is a unicorn hair. Do you know why unicorn hair is so sought after in potions and transfiguration?”

Draco’s tone wasn’t scathing, like it would have been years ago with that sort of remark. Instead, it was a simple question. Harry felt himself warming all over again to the idea of getting to know this new Draco—the one he was behind the barbs.

“Because it’s so pure?” he guessed, fairly certain he was right.

“Not quite.” Draco took the wand and slowly started to transfer each hair into the vial, a thin golden thread looping from the tip of the wand to each hair, pulling them forward one by one. “Unicorn hair isn’t pure by nature: it desires purity. It consumes it and absorbs it into its very core. The second the hair is taken from the unicorn—or found separate, like this—it begins to lose that quality and becomes vulnerable to external influence, for lack of a better explanation.”

Harry frowned down at the vial as Draco dropped the last hair inside and corked it. “So, it doesn’t want to come in contact with your wand because the hair isn’t pure anymore?”

Draco stood up straight and brushed his hair back out of his eyes, examining the vial with satisfaction. “My wand is very pure, thank you very much,” he said with a smirk. “It’s perfectly encased in the appropriate materials and spellwork required for it to be used in wandmaking. The problem is that when used in wandmaking, the hairs retain their initial properties, meaning that my wand will try to drain the purity from the new hairs—it’s why I have to be very careful whenever I use unicorn hairs in my ingredients. They’re temperamental bastards who have the audacity to become tainted,” he drew little finger quotation marks in the air as he said the word, “at the slightest external influence.”

“How dare they,” Harry said, doing his best impression of Aunt Petunia.

Malfoy looked up from his collection. “Don’t be cheeky.”

Harry laughed. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, waving Draco off. “Have you got them all? Can we go?”

“Why? Is Ickle Potty afraid of the Forbidden Forest?” he asked condescendingly, and if he wasn’t holding Harry’s wand and extracting something as ridiculously precious as unicorn hair, Harry would have hit him.

“No, I just don’t really fancy hanging around here all day. I’m not the most well-liked among the centaurs, you know.”

Draco attempted a shocked expression poorly.

“You? Not universally liked? I never would have guessed—you’re practically Mr. Congeniality himself.”

“Oh, come off it. Really—are you almost done?”

Draco pocketed the vial and checked the time. “There. Still ages until dinner. We could go and check in with Professor Slughorn, or…” he trailed off.

“Or…?” Harry asked, stepping in closer and running his hand along Draco’s waist.

“Or,” Draco repeated decisively, his gaze heated.

All Harry could think about was how good he smelled and just how much he wanted to bury his face in Draco’s neck, and suddenly all he wanted was to get back to their room and lock the door.

Draco grabbed his hand and all but dragged him back down the path. They tried to look inconspicuous as they passed back through the front doors, but Harry wasn’t entirely sure they managed it. He was thankful no one was around to see.

And then they were in their room, and the door was closed, and Draco was _there_. Harry leaned in, accidentally bumping their noses together as they met eagerly, lips parting as they kissed each other like they’d been apart for days.

“So, everyone else is going to be stuck out on the grounds all day,” Draco said, breathless, when they broke apart. “Perhaps we could take advantage of our unexpected privacy and try something new?”

Harry’s eyes widened. “What are you thinking?”

Draco glanced at him and then looked away, the slightest hint of nervousness in his expression.

“When we started out, I was uncomfortable with the idea of complete sexual intimacy, but I think I might be ready for it now.”

He seemed to be asking whether Harry was ready with his eyes.

“That’s good to know. I think I am, too, with you.”

Draco nodded, raising one eyebrow in a little dare that Harry found stupidly sexy. “Well, then,” he said lamely.

“Did you want to top or bottom?” Harry cut in eagerly, voice cracking.

“While both certainly sound appetising,” Draco said, leaning in to run his teeth along Harry’s collarbone and pulling off Harry’s shirt while he was at it. “Something about lying back and watching you do all the hard work appeals to me. What do you think?”

Harry tipped his head back and fought back a moan. “I think it sounds like a great plan. Solid plan. I see zero flaws.”

Draco huffed a laugh against his chest and then pulled them back onto the bed. “You should probably undress me then,” he said, looking far more imperious than someone lying down should have the right to look.

Harry laughed and straddled Draco, leaning down to undo the buttons of his shirt as slowly as he could possibly manage. “Don’t you think you could have stayed standing for that, then?”

“Don’t want to make it too easy for you.” Draco’s eyelids fluttered closed, and Harry watched, enthralled, as several emotions passed quickly across his face. He bit his lip, clearly trying not to moan. “Merlin, Harry, move faster, will you?”

“Don’t want to make it too easy for you,” Harry said lightly, earning him a glare.

Nonetheless, he grabbed either side of Draco’s shirt and pulled him up into another kiss so he could finish unbuttoning and pushing it roughly off over his shoulders. He felt Draco gasp against his mouth, and he couldn’t contain a smug smile as he pushed him back down and made short work of his trousers.

Balancing himself on the headboard, he leaned over and opened Draco’s bedside drawer to get the lube.

“Go slow. You wouldn’t want to get too carried away and end it before we even begin, would you? Since this is new.”

Harry looked over to see his eyes were heavy lidded as he watched Harry’s movements. His hand was resting casually against his hip, a hairsbreadth from his hard cock, but he wasn’t touching himself—instead, he seemed to be enjoying the light tease of his fingers against his own thigh as his eyes rested on where Harry was hard and dripping.

Harry made a mental note to remember that, to tease Draco’s hips and thighs later on, and dropped back down to straddle his legs.

“Sure,” he said. “Just tell me what you need.”

Draco nodded. His fingers moved until he was sliding them lightly over his cock, and Harry found it hard to look away.

He did look away, though, when Draco jostled him, glaring at him meaningfully until he went about the usual business of unstopping the vial and slicking Draco up. The first press of his finger inside was so much easier than it had been the first time they’d done this. Draco didn’t clamp down on him, and didn’t sound pained at all even as he lubed up a second finger and slid it in alongside the first.

It was quick work this time, after so much practice, finding Draco’s prostate. He massaged it relentlessly until Draco was gasping and moaning obscenities at him, writhing down onto his hand and begging for more.

His reactions made Harry feel powerful. He didn’t have much patience for foreplay; however, the idea of going all the way, _fully_ having sex for real, was overwhelming, and several times, he had to reach down and give himself a squeeze when he got too excited and thought he might come right then and there, just from fingering Draco and seeing and hearing him respond. Soon, he had three fingers thrusting in and out.

With each press inward, Draco rocked down on him, fucking himself crudely.

“Okay, I think you’re ready,” Harry finally said, and when he pulled his hand away, it was torturous for both of them.

He had to get off the bed briefly to root through his trousers for his wand, and when he turned around again, Draco had slid down so he was at the edge of the bed. He was watching Harry with obvious desire.

He levelled his wand at himself and used the charm they’d learned from _So You Want To Have Sex?_ to create a barrier that made his cock glitter faintly. Grinning shakily at Draco, he retrieved the vial and slicked himself up.

The next moment, he was between Draco’s thighs, pressing the head of his prick to Draco.

“Ready?”

Draco looked him in the eye, swallowed once, and nodded. Harry started to push in.

He’d fantasised about what it would be like to be inside somebody before. He’d even fantasised about being inside Draco once he’d known that was on the table. Once they’d started experimenting with fingering and rimming, he’d thought he had a fairly decent idea what the experience was like, but he’d been wrong.

There was no way to have anticipated the wet slide into Draco, the shiver that rippled through him as he inched his way inward. It was like all of his other senses abandoned him so that he could focus on the feeling of his cock encased by the hot, slippery tunnel.

It was like nothing he’d ever experienced before. Masturbating and even fingering had been fantastic, but the feeling was wholly different from this.

Draco made a little grunting sound as he bottomed out, and flexed his hips, sending spasms of sensation through Harry that made him shudder and breathe heavily.

“Alright?” he asked, grasping Draco’s hip tightly in an effort not to blow his load right then and there.

“Lots,” Draco said after a moment, wrinkling his nose and fidgeting. Harry twitched and tried to breathe normally. “You can move.”

He did, then, slowly at first, worried about giving too much stimulation and overwhelming Draco by going too fast or being too rough, but as they both got used to the sensation, his movements became more smooth.

“Wait,” Draco said suddenly, shaking his head.

Harry froze, holding himself still as his attention switched instantaneously from the sensations on his cock to Draco’s worried face.

“Do you need me to stop?” he asked, already pulling back.

Draco nodded, and Harry slipped out, dropping down beside him on the bed.

“Was it too much?” he asked.

Draco’s face was flushed, his brow furrowed in a faint grimace that Harry had the urge to reach up and smooth with his fingers. After a moment, he remembered that there was no reason that he couldn’t, so he reached up and did just that. Draco turned to him with a startled expression before his eyes dropped to Harry’s mouth. Caught by the expression, his fingers stilled, and he leaned down to brush their lips together. His breathy sighs turned quickly into a groan when Draco’s hands dropped to his arse and pulled him on top.

They began to move slowly against each other as the kiss deepened. Draco reached out blindly for the lube and poured it over the both of them, making Harry yelp at the sudden cold before Draco took hold of both of them in his hand and began to stroke.

“Feels so good,” he murmured.

His earlier nerves were beginning to fade now that there wasn’t quite so much pressure to be in charge, and he started to lose himself in the sensation of Draco’s hand between them.

There was a mumbled response, but Harry didn’t catch it because Draco made a particularly deft manoeuvre with his wrist and he nearly came.

Draco gave his shoulder a light push until he propped himself up on his hands and looked down.

“Think I’m ready again,” he breathed.

Harry pushed himself back so that he was lined up between Draco’s legs and began to ease carefully forward until they found themselves back how they were before. He felt a flutter of anxiety to get it right this time.

Very quickly, it became apparent that the angle they were working with wasn’t to their advantage. The bed was too low or Harry was too tall, and he couldn’t go very far without having to bend his knees uncomfortably or hunch awkwardly over Draco.

Embarrassingly, he kept slipping out while doing his almost dance trying to find a comfortable and also decent angle.

“Shit, sorry, sorry,” he apologised, grabbing his cock and lining back up, slipping back in for the third time.

Draco let out a groan of frustration and sat up on his elbows so he could see Harry properly. He glared down at where they were joined—or tried to. His neck was straining with the effort, and he quickly changed the direction of his irritation to Harry. He’d slowly been losing his erection, and now lay half flaccid against his stomach. “What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know. You’re too far down for this to work.”

Draco frowned.

“Are you calling me _short?”_ he demanded with all the grace that implied that if Harry’s answer was anything other than a swift “no”, there was going to be trouble.

“No!” he yelped. “Well, yes. Maybe.”

In his inattention, he’d slipped out again. The combination of his anxiousness over it not working out smoothly and Draco glaring at him, offended, was too much, and he started up a hyena cackle of nervous laughter that only spiralled further and further out of control as Draco’s expression went slack in surprise and then bemusement.

It was too much, and suddenly all he could think about was how much of a farce it all was. He’d been so anxious to get it right, for it to be perfect, and here he was: slipping out of Draco every other stroke. It was too funny. He couldn’t stop the laughter as it spilled out of him, and looking at Draco was only making it worse.

Something in his face must have twigged for Draco, or maybe it was just catching, but in the next moment, he let out a small huff, and then another that turned into a chuckle, and soon he was laughing right along with Harry.

“Oh, my god,” he enthused. He’d laid back down on the bed and covered his eyes with his elbow, still shaking with laughter. “Oh, my _god._ This is unbearable. _”_

“Absolutely awful,” Harry agreed happily as they calmed down, wiping a rogue tear that’d escaped off his cheek with the heel of his hand.

“Right, that’s it,” Draco said abruptly, sitting up. Harry had to take a step back so he wasn’t headbutted in the sternum, though he couldn’t see a way that that wouldn’t end in more laughter at this point, and possibly tears for entirely different reasons. “Get on the bed, I’m showing you how it’s _meant_ to be done. No more amateur hour.”

Harry snorted, but crawled onto the bed anyway.

“What, with all the expertise you’ve gathered over the years in the art of lovemaking?”

Draco shot him a wounded look as he uncorked the lube and emptied it onto his hand.

“Any attempt has _got_ to be better than that,” he said imperiously, motioning for Harry to scoot further up the bed so he’d have room to get on.

“I was beginning to think the books were just having us on.”

“Shall I summon them? So we can make absolutely sure we’re doing it right this time? You could say a _textbook_ example?”

Harry groaned in disgust, but also surprise, as Draco had chosen that moment to start tracing circles around his hole.

“That was _awful,_ ” he chastised, and, “Argh, that’s cold. Couldn’t have warmed it up, could you?”

“Don’t be cheeky,” Draco reprimanded him, slapping his arse cheek with his free hand inserting his first finger at the same time. Harry yelped, and when he looked down, Draco was looking very pleased with himself.

Harry wasn’t as used to the sensation as Draco, so it took him a decent amount of time to warm up to having fingers there, and by the time he was properly stretched and Draco had duplicated the protection charm and lubed up, they were both back to being rock hard.

“Yours glitters so much more than mine,” Harry snickered. “We match.”

Draco’s eyes rolled heavenward. “What have I got myself into?” he muttered under his breath, and then he was there, filling the void he’d created inside Harry with himself.

“Oh,” Harry moaned, drawing it out nearly the full length of time it took Draco to press all the way inside.

“Good?” Draco asked above him. He was holding him by both hips, massaging small circles with his thumbs as Harry got used to the sensation of being stretched.

“It’s a lot,” he echoed Draco’s earlier words, suddenly coming to the realisation of what it was like to be on the opposite end. It didn’t feel bad or hurt, it was just… unusual. Different than having fingers inside himself.

Draco started moving, short, rocking thrusts that he built up to long, languid ones. Faster than he’d been expecting, his perception of weirdness turned into something else that felt pleasant, like he could sustain himself on Draco’s gentle movements forever if he wanted.

Then, Draco shifted ever so slightly, hitched his hips up so they were partially suspended off the bed, and he started moving more energetically. The new angle had him brushing past Harry’s prostate, and he found himself moaning and squirming, trying to get more of it.

One of Draco’s hands started wandering up his chest, pausing to play with his nipples before continuing on to explore the sweaty planes of his chest and back down to his abdomen. Harry twitched and all of his muscles seemed to clench every time he hit upon a sensitive spot, of which there seemed to be many more than he remembered.

Finally, Draco’s hand found his cock, and he jerked it quickly, in time with the motion of his prick inside Harry. His vocalisations took on a new urgency. Every now and then, he’d drop down to play with Harry’s balls, squeezing and massaging them in a way that made Harry see stars and drift even closer to coming.

It happened when Draco leaned down to kiss him. This way, he pressed even deeper into Harry than he’d been able to before, and the surprise of it and the kiss tripped him over the edge and he orgasmed so intensely, lights flickered behind his eyelids.

Moments later, he felt Draco withdrawing from his body, grunting as he fisted himself and started pulling furiously, all the while looking at Harry. Harry looked back unabashedly,. watching Draco wank from under his lashes.

“Come on, Draco,” he encouraged, drawing his lip into his mouth and biting down on it.

Draco made a wounded sound and wanked madly until he, too, was coming in long spurts that seemed to pull all of the energy out of him. Afterwards, he slumped down on top of Harry, forehead pressed uncomfortably into the junction where his neck met his shoulder. There, he mouthed lazily at the skin of his throat, pressing sloppy kisses where he could reach as he caught his breath.

Though they were both sweaty and disgusting, Harry couldn’t help the euphoric grin that spread across his face, or the arm that came up around Draco and started playing with the fine hairs at his nape.

“You know, when we first started out, I wasn’t sure if we’d make it all the way to this,” Harry admitted, watching the path of his fingers as they trailed along Draco’s shoulders. “Or if I’d want to.”

Draco said something in response, but it was muffled. Harry pushed at him until he sat up and glared, speaking audibly this time.

“Stop,” he said, enunciating carefully, “talking.”

Then, he dropped back down into the crook of Harry’s neck, curling tightly into him.

“No,” Harry said, pretending to think it over. “I don’t think I will. Because I want you to know this.”

Draco groaned, burying in closer like he was trying to ignore him, but Harry could tell he was listening closely.

“I wasn’t sure how far I’d want to go, or if I’d like any of it,” Harry went on, tracing small circles across Draco’s back. He laughed suddenly. “And you were a surprise.”

Draco was holding himself very carefully now. Harry felt him start to lift his head up, presumably to look at Harry and ask him what the fuck he was going on about, but Harry quickly grabbed a hold of his shoulder and pushed lightly, the gesture a plea to wait. Slowly, Draco dropped back down.

“I thought the biggest part about all of this would be the sex itself,” he went on. “It sounded like such a big deal, the way everyone would talk about it, and our overly-loud neighbours. I thought there was something huge that I was missing out on, and that when I got there, it would all make sense. And maybe that’s how it is for other people, I don’t know, but I _do_ know…” he trailed off.

“That you’re a sentimental prat?” came the muffled suggestion.

Harry smacked him lightly. “That I’m really glad we decided to do this together. I wouldn’t have wanted to explore this with anyone else.”

When it was clear that he’d finished, Draco lifted himself up so that he was propped on one elbow, looking down at Harry with an unreadable expression.

“I always thought,” he said conversationally, “that I would end up in a nice, normal relationship where, at the hint of discussing our emotions, someone would dive for the smelling salts.”

Harry snorted. “That’s your idea of a normal relationship? Why am I not surprised?”

Draco sniffed delicately. “I suppose it’s too much to hope you could grow to learn the appropriate pureblood decorum?”

“Not a chance.”

Draco made a big show of sighing before he lay back down, this time pulling the covers up over them—a clear signal that their conversation was over.

“I suppose,” he said quietly, “that I can learn to live with that.”

The warmth of Draco’s breath hitting his neck made Harry shiver, and he subconsciously rolled to face him and draw him in closer.

“Good. Because—and believe me, it’s come as quite a shock—I kind of like you.”

“To my absolute horror, I quite like you too,” Draco mumbled, already half asleep.

Harry smiled, and continued in a gentle, soothing tone, “In that case, you won’t mind turning out the light.”

Before he had the chance to react, he pushed Draco out of bed, ignoring his indignant squawk as he hit the cold floor and spelled the curtains closed against any retaliatory actions Draco might take.

Draco wasn’t shy about muttering obscenities and curses under his breath, all aimed at Harry. There was a terrifying moment of absolute silence during which he held his breath for fear of tipping Draco off as to where he was in bed, and then, surprisingly, the lights flickered off, and Draco was sliding back into bed.

“You’ll pay for that, Potter,” Draco said in a tone that had Harry feeling like he was back in third year all over again.

Before he had the chance to respond, Draco was tucking his icy feet between Harry’s thighs. Harry shouted in alarm and tried to move away, but Draco wrapped his arms around his torso and forced him to take it. Finally, after a great deal of struggle to no avail, Harry laid still and accepted his fate.

“You’re a cruel, cruel man, Draco Malfoy,” he said miserably.

He felt the smile against his skin.

“I like you, too,” was all Draco said in response, and the small spark that had been growing since they’d really, properly started this thing with emotions and all blossomed into a warm ball in his chest.

Draco had said he’d learn to live with him, and, well, Harry was quite alright with that. He could learn to live with Draco, too. Though, maybe not without insisting he wear socks to bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Find us on tumblr [@agentmoppet](http://agentmoppet.tumblr.com/) and [@decanthrope](http://decanthrope.tumblr.com/)!


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